


Einsamkeit

by lustig



Series: Einsamkeit - Trevilieu Mutant Verse [1]
Category: French History RPF, The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mutants, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Canonical Character Death, Getting to Know Each Other, Heavy Angst, Imprisonment, Isolation, Loneliness, M/M, Mentions of Cruelty against Animals, Miscommunication, Non-consensual Mind Melding, Original Character(s), Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Harm, Stockholm Syndrome, Suicidal Thoughts, Telepathy, Thinking About Death, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-04-05
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:13:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 27,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23277655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lustig/pseuds/lustig
Summary: Two souls crippled by loneliness. One unexpected meeting. A path that could lead to redemption.Armand “The Cardinal” Richelieu is a telepath, held prisoner by an organisation that wants to protect the people from dangerous mutants. One day, a new warden makes his way down towards his cell, and with their growing friendship, things starts snowballing out of control. Out of everyone’s control.
Relationships: Armand Jean du Plessis de Richelieu & de Tréville (Trois Mousquetaires), Armand Jean du Plessis de Richelieu/de Tréville (Trois Mousquetaires)
Series: Einsamkeit - Trevilieu Mutant Verse [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2114790
Comments: 2
Kudos: 44





	1. Part I – The Prison

**Author's Note:**

> The story I have been working on for the last two years now, finally finished and beta'd by the wonderful Liadt.
> 
> Thanks to all the people who beared with me and kept me motivated to write this monster - even though this story is far from fluffy and nice.
> 
> Hope you enjoy reading, and if you want to scream at me, I am always delighted to receive feedback of any kind.
> 
> Cheers, lustig

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Prison, the:**  
>  1\. A state of confinement or captivity  
> 2\. A place of confinement especially for lawbreakers | specifically: an institution (such as one under state jurisdiction) for confinement of persons convicted of serious crimes
> 
> _[> Source](https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/prison) _

## Part I – The Prison

_Sein Blick ist vom Vorübergehn der Stäbe  
so müd geworden, daß er nichts mehr hält.  
Ihm ist, als ob es tausend Stäbe gäbe  
und hinter tausend Stäben keine Welt._

_Der weiche Gang geschmeidig starker Schritte,  
der sich im allerkleinsten Kreise dreht,  
ist wie ein Tanz von Kraft um eine Mitte,  
in der betäubt ein großer Wille steht._

_Nur manchmal schiebt der Vorhang der Pupille  
sich lautlos auf –. Dann geht ein Bild hinein,  
geht durch der Glieder angespannte Stille –  
und hört im Herzen auf zu sein._

_(Rainer Maria Rilke – Der Panther)_

### 1.

He didn’t even raise his head anymore when he heard the door to his cell opening. And why should he? He couldn’t see the visitor anyway.

When his mind brushed against the soft swirling colours – blue, so much blue – wrapping around the strange, new addition to the bleak darkness surrounding him, his head jerked up in sheer surprise. He barely managed to suppress a low moan, like a man deprived of any touch might give when suddenly embraced by a comforting hug.

The visitor closed the door behind him, a picture of the room crystallising in the blue swirl as he took in his surroundings.

The cell looked clinical, completely white, and he was the only disturbance in this sterile environment with his pale skin, steel cuffs holding his hands behind his back and a black blindfold – which he still hadn’t managed to get rid of even after all this time – a dark smear across his face. His hair was longer than it had ever been before, the curls had dropped into soft waves and the chestnut colour had faded to silver. And his beard, once a finely trimmed goatee, now covered most of his jaw and chin. He looked wary, tired, yet with his stance still poised, still regal in the white cassock-like prisoner’s outfit he wore.

“Who are you?” he breathed. A strange, new scene, a mixture of blood and mud, replaced the picture of his cell. Dark, grey fog or smoke hung low over the ground, a young soldier in what could have been a French First World War uniform, he looked barely older than sixteen, crumbling to the ground, his expression one of silent surprise. His chest was torn open by bullets, and –

He whimpered when, suddenly, the darkness came back, his mind cruelly disconnected from the soft blue.

“You’re the Weapon.”

“The name’s Jean.”

### 2.

“I didn’t realise that your organisation has rated me so dangerous that they put their greatest soldier in charge of my protection,” he greeted Jean, when he came down to his prison cell the next time. At least he was pretty sure it was Jean, there was still only darkness where his mind had burned the last time.

“They didn’t,” Jean answered gruffly. “And I’m not their greatest soldier.”

“Yes, you are. You’ve been around at least since the First World War, some say even before that. There is no fighter in their ranks who matches your skill and experience with any kind of weapon.”

Jean scoffed, and stepped closer, the smell of food slowly penetrating the prisoner’s senses.

“They don’t rank us by our skill with weapons, but by our mutation, as you very well know.”

“You must be a four at least, though.”

His warden barked out a laugh.

“You overestimate me by far. Who gave you the idea I’m qualifying for a _four_? To be instinctively able to use any kind of weapon does not qualify for a four. Influencing the minds of half a million people at the same time without them realising, _that_ is qualifying for a four. I’m barely even making it as a three.”

“But your mutation is more than the ability to instinctively use weapons,” he responded, baffled.

“Eat now,” Jean ordered, obviously deciding their conversation was over. The prisoner quietly complied, used to the humiliation of being fed by now because they didn’t dare to free his hands.

“If they didn’t put _you_ in charge,” he started, after finishing the meal, sensing Jean had turned away to take his leave and desperately clinging to this small distraction from the darkness surrounding him, “then who is?”

“You didn’t understand my answer, Cardinal.”

Jean might have smiled, before he left. He would never know.

### 3.

He sat on the floor of his cell, back resting against the bedframe, face turned upwards. His mind filled the darkness with an endless amount of shining stars, constellations, galaxies, planets and moons recreated by memory. He didn’t know all their names, but he imagined them, named them anew: The Fortress, The Panther, The Rosary.

When the door suddenly opened, startling him out of the picture, he awkwardly tried to scramble into a standing position, his bound hands as useless as per usual.

While fighting against the worsening immobility of his own body, he waited for the visitor to offer his help, to just _help_ him, stealing him of his last piece of dignity. But none came.

He didn’t even hear the other man shuffling around the room, and he didn’t feel like he was being watched – _judged_. It was nice enough a change that his scowl softened into a softer expression when he finally stood upright, but he didn’t move any further, waiting for his visitor to do the first, the next, step.

“I am here to offer you a shower,” Jean said. “If you want to, that is. I’ll still need to supervise you, I can neither uncover your eyes nor am I allowed to free your hands. But if you’re fine with that, we have clearance to go.”

The prisoner made one involuntary step towards Jean, a soft whimper escaping him. They hadn’t offered him a shower for all the time he’d been here. They washed him, his hair, of course, but never under running water.

“Can I take that as a yes, then?”

Jean sounded bemused, while embarrassment crept up the Cardinal’s cheeks, yet it didn’t manage to overpower that tiny glint of hope, the hunger for anything that might disrupt his current life.

As soon as Jean led him out of his cell, his knees gave way below him. After the never-ending darkness that surrounded him, his mind in that prison, the minds of the world around him, far away as they were, looked – _felt_ – like an explosion of colour and light.

His physical body was forgotten.

His mind wandered off, brushing against all these radiant orbs, taking in the colours, the pictures, the emotions on their surface, unable to think of anything else besides absorbing all these strange yet familiar sensations.

It was far, _far_ too much, and yet, at the same time, not enough at all.

He was overwhelmed, his mind going into overdrive, but he hungered for more. He didn’t even realise Jean had picked him up and carried him onwards, too distracted by the suddenly revealed world around him. He smelled leather, this close to the warden, no fabric pressed against him where their bodies touched, and with a pang of regret he realised the blue was still missing.

### 4.

In all this time during his captivity, he had never felt so good.

He wasn’t happy, there was still far too much oppression all around him, his vision still blocked and his mind confined again to his cell, but he felt content – _alive_. His hair was still slightly damp, his body pleasantly warm and he felt clean in more ways than one.

He felt renewed.

The world was out there, just barely out of his grasp, and he could still feel the tingling touch of their thoughts, their fears, their joys. The colours weren’t as intense as he had perceived them when Jean had first led him out of his cell, but their imprint was still brighter than anything he could come up with by himself.

Jean was still there, the comforting smell of leather stronger now that it had been exposed to the more humid air of the showers. He had brought – or carried, more accurately – him back to the cell, all the way to his sleeping spot, and the Cardinal didn’t plan on moving from there for quite some time, body heavy and relaxed.

When he heard Jean finally opening the door, he turned to the man and sleepily murmured: “I thought about your answer. If you are in charge, but they didn’t _put_ you in charge – then you asked to be in charge, didn’t you?”

“I did, yes.”

“Why?”

“ _That_ you’ll have to find out for yourself.”

He was very sure Jean was smiling.

“Wouldn’t it be boring if I gave you all the answers before you even had a chance of thinking about them?”

When he didn’t find anything to reply, Jean opened the door, waiting for another minute in case the Cardinal would add anything else. But he had already drifted off, dreaming of colours, of laughter, of love.

### 5.

“Don’t they send you out on field missions?” he asked, his head following the soft shuffling that indicated Jean’s position in the room.

“Huh?”

“You’re coming here so regularly, I haven’t had another warden since you picked up the job. I thought your lot was running all over the continent, looking for possible new recruits, hunting down the bad guys, that sort of stuff. But you always seem to be around. Don’t they send you out, too? Don’t you _want_ to be send out?”

“No, I’m not. I’m usually here, taking care of the recruits. Only those with weaker mutations, mind.”

“Why those with weaker mutations? And don’t you mind always being the one staying behind?”

Jean clearly hesitated in answering, but finally he offered: “What do you know about me?”

“You mean about The Weapon, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Not very much, I fear. Not more than most people do. I know you have the ability to instinctively use everything you lay your hands on as a weapon and that you have a low regenerative power that allows you to survive even fatal injuries. I know you’ve been around for quite some time, there are reports of your fighting in the First World War for the Americans, but your name indicates your family has French or Canadian roots, so you probably emigrated to the States a little time before that.

“I know you’ve been associated with this institution,” he rolled his head to point at his current room and surroundings, “Since nearly its beginning and I think you are – if not _the_ first – then at least one of the first mentioned mutants in history.”

Jean hummed thoughtfully.

“That’s actually more than most people do know about me, at least outside of this organisation. And it should be enough for you to realise why I might not be too offended not to be send out to run after some kids.”

The Cardinal didn’t answer, his forehead crumpled into a deep frown.

“I fought in both world wars, Cardinal. And even if I may not look the part, I’m over a hundred years old.”

Jean’s voice was soft, nearly apologetic.

“The youngsters can run around all they like. But I’ve seen my share of this world. So, no, I don’t mind being the one to stay behind. And I only train the weaker mutants because they are the ones who can’t solely depend on their mutation to take care of a problem. And they are not too vain to get their hands dirty, either. So I teach them how to use their weapon of choice most effectively in combination with whatever power they might have.”

### 6.

His mind was cramped together into a tight ball and he listened to his own shallow breathing just to have something for it to focus on. His body still hurt from the violent spasms tearing him out of his nightmare only to find himself back in the one he was forced to live. He laid on the bed, lax now, his forehead touching the wall in search of a physical anchor.

He felt old. And he still heard his mind screaming, smashing against these prison walls without accomplishing anything. He thought about crying, but tears would only get stuck in the strange fabric of his blindfold, irritating the skin below. And while the pain might be a nice distraction, he knew he wouldn’t get a new blindfold because of that, and he didn’t dare trying anything that might bring permanent harm to his eyes.

So his body stayed in its current position, limply lying on his bed, exhausted, hurting.

He didn’t know what time it was.

He didn’t know how long he had slept before being torn out by yet another nightmare.

He didn’t know how long he laid there without moving, his mind still curled into a tight ball.

_He didn’t care._

Darkness was around him, no matter if he was awake or asleep. Darkness was all that was left for him.

He idly thought about screaming, just to see if someone would come, but trying would be too much of an effort, and so he didn’t.

He thought about pain, about blood, mostly his own, but that would have required something to hurt himself with, or at least unbound hands, and his mind was the last thing left to him so he didn’t dare risk his head for a moment of pleasure, of lifted pressure, of distraction.

The door opened before his thoughts could travel any further, but he decided that turning around to his visitor, would be too much of an effort, when he wasn’t even able to see him.

He imagined blue, instead, the swirling hues still vivid in his mind, even if it could have been a week since he had touched them. Or a month. Or a year. Time didn’t matter in his prison, hadn’t mattered since the very beginning.

“Cardinal?” Jean asked.

He didn’t answer. Steps moved closer, stopping by the side of his bed. Two fingers lightly touched his throat, and, when finding the pulse beating below them, trailed up to his turned-away forehead to brush a strand of hair out of the way.

Jean sighed, quietly, but it sounded loud in the surrounding silence.

“I brought you a meal.”

“’m not hungry.”

“I know. But you are still required to eat if you don’t want them to restrain you completely and start feeding you intravenously.”

Before he could answer, maybe because he was looking forward to them trying, Jean continued.

“What about a deal, huh? You eat your meal like you’re supposed to and I will tell you a story in exchange.”

He barely stopped his traitorous head from snapping around, towards the voice, mind unfurling at the mere _thought_ of this new, unexpected offer.

“What kind of story?” he asked instead, the tremble in his voice giving away he had already agreed, no matter what Jean would tell him. Anything was better than this miserable loneliness.

“I don’t know. Ask one of me. There are lots of stories I can tell.”

“Tell me about your day, then,” he pledged, and finally willed his body to turn to the Weapon.

### 7.

He reproachfully bowed his head when Jean came to his cell the next time. Partially because he felt ashamed of Jean finding him in the aftermath of a breakdown, partially because he still wasn’t really ready to admit even to himself that he was hoping for another story today.

Stories were no replacement for the feeling of another mind touching, connecting with his, but with all his energies confined to the cell he didn’t find it difficult to build a fitting picture for Jean’s words in his head, vividly imagining everything he was told. And without worldly distractions, he found he could keep the Weapon’s tale nearly word by word in his memory, reliving the mundane, yet nonetheless exciting things, Jean had told him time and time again.

If they didn’t allow him to fill his head with the colours, the lives he so craved, he would just have to build a world on his own in there.

Before he was able to say a thing, though, he heard a low sigh from Jean, and he chuckled, amused yet exasperated: “What kind of story are you hoping for now?”

For a moment the Cardinal thought about denying, just out of instinct, just because _he wasn’t that easy_ , but he had learned a long time ago that letting his pride speak instead of his intellect would get him nowhere very fast. So he didn’t say anything, keeping his head low in a carefully trained submissive gesture.

“Alright, Cardinal. You eat and afterwards I’ll tell you a bit about my boys. Would that be acceptable?”

There was still laughter in his voice, but no mockery. Jean just seemed comfortable, like he was used to that sort of banter, and the prisoner felt as if he was taking part in a game in which he was not privy to the rules. He still agreed, though, feeling too much like the Panther of Rainer Maria Rilke to dare angering his warden. None of those who had come before him had even tried to exchange a word with him. They had all been far too scared.

Jean started his little tales while he was still feeding him.

“I have a handful of recruits right now. All mutants, all either one’s or two’s. I think it’s quite unfair to them, because their skills on their own might not be the most impressive ones, but I believe that they’ll still be able to easily beat much stronger opponents once they are aware of how to effectively use their mutations in a real fight.

“There are three especially promising recruits, inseparable boys who’d die for each other without thinking twice. Which is a shame, but oh well. I privately nicknamed them Athos, Porthos and Aramis, but their official mutant names are Déjà-vu, The Boulder and Eagle Eye.

“Athos, or Déjà-vu, is the recruit I’ve had for the longest time, now. He can see very short glimpses of his own possible futures, only for the next few seconds, but he is a lot of fun to train in fighting, because you cannot surprise him. He basically knows how you will attack before you know it yourself. His mutation only works when there’s enough adrenalin in his blood, though, so it’s only useful in actual fight scenarios.

“Porthos, The Boulder, is someone you really don’t want to piss off. He’s huge, he’s strong and he can turn his skin to stone. He’s characteristically speaking the most steady one of the trio, calm and reasonable, but he can hold grudges for a very, very long time. I think he missed out on the three-rating because his skin turns to the wrong kind of stone, which still makes him vulnerable. He’s the best in one-on-one fights without weapons, though.

“Aramis is probably the one with one of the least impressive mutations I’ve seen so far. He can adjust his focus to see every detail even three miles off – that’s why he’s named Eagle’s Eye, his eyes even look more like birds’ eyes than humans’. I’m training him in shooting, snipers in particular, and he has the most steady hands I’ve ever seen.”

“Why did you name them Athos, Porthos and Aramis?”

“Because they remind me of the Three Musketeers, of course.”

He felt an uncomfortable blush spreading up his cheeks, not familiar with what the Weapon was talking about.

“You know, One for all, all for one, that kind of stuff.”

“Is it some kind of movie?”

A stunned silence followed his question, making it clear that Jean had expected a very different kind of response.

“You have no idea what I’m talking about?”

The Cardinal clenched his teeth.

“Do I look like I do?”

“You’ve never heard of The Three Musketeers? Bad historical fiction with some of the most iconic lines in the history of literature? Written by Alexandre Dumas?”

He turned away, to hide the blush in his cheeks from his visitor; trying and failing to find a witty response.

“There have been so many adaptions of that work – I can’t believe it all just went past you. Did you grow up in a cloister?”

“No, in a Seminary,” he spat out, his mind lashing out of pure instinct, into the dark nothingness around him. He gagged, helpless, stumbled against his bed, when his upset mind was not able to curl around the perpetrator’s to put it in its place _below him_ again.

He shuddered, fighting back the feeling of panic that still took over his body whenever the physical sensations didn’t correspond with the psychic ones.

A warm hand pressed against his back, tearing him out of his thoughts, grounding him.

“I’m sorry”, Jean offered, “I didn’t know. It’s just been a part of my life for such a long time that I find it hard to believe there is one single person around who doesn’t know it. I certainly didn’t want to upset you.”

The Cardinal calmed down, Jean’s voice, sincere and soft, stilled the swirling rage, the panic, the helplessness. The hand on his back softly started to rub small circles into the tense muscles and he forced his shoulders to relax. Jean was no threat. His whole being broadcasted that. Jean was no threat. Not for him. He straightened his back, posture carefully controlled. The hand retreated.

“I’ll leave you alone, now, alright? I’ll be back soon.”

He hoped Jean was smiling. It didn’t sound like he did.

### 8.

“Would you like to tell me more about the Three Musketeers?”

He had been worried, after Jean had left the last time, worried that he had gone too far, or not far enough, that he had offended Jean, scared him off with his ignorance, with his uncalled anger. But Jean was back, was still there, still came for him in his darkness. He waited with tense anticipation if the Weapon would answer, would accept this offering of peace, of a truce.

Seconds passed.

Then a low chuckle came from the direction of the door and Jean replied: “It’s really not very interesting. Dumas’ took a couple of original names, changed them, but only partially, and then mixed up a few dates and places to make the story look more interesting. It’s mostly about four musketeers who are far too fond of their rapiers, dealing with their personal problems and tragedies while saving France – or more precisely – the name of the Queen in what little time they have between bragging and making moony eyes at the ladies.”

“Why is it called the _Three Musketeers_ when there are four of them?”

“The fourth, d’Artagnan, is no real Musketeer, he’s a recruit who turns up at the beginning and accidentally runs into the trio, having challenged all of them on separate occasions to a duel. And then they bond over fighting against a handful of the Red Guards, the personal troops of the evil villain, Cardinal Richelieu, because duelling is illegal and they wanted to put a stop to the Musketeers. Apart from the fact that the Red Guard never existed under this name in history – they were known as the Cardinal’s Musketeers – there is _of course_ also a personal feud between those two regiments and _of course_ the Musketeers are victorious as always – it’s really very silly.”

“…Cardinal Richelieu.”

“Yeah, I know, the world’s a funny place, isn’t it? I hope you were at least aware of the existence of your namesake, if not of the _Three Musketeers_.”

“I have probably heard about him in the Seminary, but he lived – what – four hundred years ago? You can’t forge politics with a position in Religion now like you could back then, so I never really had any interest in studying that specific time frame and the people and literature who came with it.”

There was a long silence, and just before it grew uncomfortable, Jean softly stated: “He forged the whole century, with his politics. Without him, France would have been nothing, maybe even turned into another block of land controlled by the Habsburgs. They certainly tried to make one out of it. He was the most extraordinary mind in all of Europe, maybe even the whole world, in that century.

“It saddens me that, today, people only remember him as the evil monster trying to bring France down or seizing the crown, being beaten by four melodramatic idiots, or not at all. Everything he did, for all of his life, he did for France. His aim had never been to seize the crown. All he ever wanted was a strong leader and a prospering country, peace and wealth for the people of his beloved kingdom.”

“You sound like you knew him personally,” he breathed, making a careful step in his visitor’s supposed direction. Even without being able to see, to read his mind, he felt the sadness and pain radiating off Jean in waves.

Instead of giving an answer, the Weapon just scoffed, turned around and left. His breath sounded shaky.

After the door had been closed again for what felt like an hour, but could have been five minutes or less, the Cardinal exhaled a long, thoughtful sigh.

“Who are you, Jean?”

### 9.

Jean kept coming, and he kept asking questions. Not about the musketeers anymore, nor about his namesake. Jean didn’t bring them up either. Jean had seemed slightly uncomfortable for the first two or three meetings after his rant, but when he realised that the Cardinal wouldn’t bring it up anytime soon, he had started to feel more at ease again – and the Cardinal felt the same.

He still had the urge to present himself in his usual poised, controlled stance whenever the door opened, but it grew weaker with every visit. None of his other wardens had ever tried to talk to him, let alone have a whole conversation with the infamous prisoner. But Jean wasn’t afraid. Jean didn’t treat him like a prisoner, but more like a friend whom he hadn’t seen for a very long time and who had, unfortunately, ended up in a prison he unexpectedly found himself in charge of.

He didn’t try anything to get him out, too loyal to his Highers, but he made the Cardinal’s stay more and more comfortable. Not on a material basis, but on the spiritual one he so craved.

“How do you keep blocking me out of your mind? And separate from all those other people out there? I know it has something to do with my cell, I _was_ able to get in touch with everyone around me that one time you took me to the showers.”

“I can’t tell you the specifics, I don’t know about those myself, but as far as I know it’s some kind of metal that blocks all kinds of telepathic waves. Your cell is plated with it, and we – the wardens taking care of you – have to wear a helmet made out of it to keep you out of our minds.”

Jean sounded tired, maybe even a bit frustrated.

“But you already took my eyesight with that stupid blindfold. What do you have to fear from letting my mind roam freely when I can’t look into those people’s eyes?”

“What do you mean; we don’t have anything to fear? You are a telepath, and a damn powerful one at that. If they let your mind roam freely, no one could predict what would happen – what you would be able to do.”

He stood there in terrible silence, trying to comprehend what his captors implicated by spreading this story about him.

“Is that why they marked me a four?” he finally spat, bitterness and anger coursing through his body. “Because I can control their minds while looking at them, it must mean I also seize control the moment my mind _brushes_ against theirs? Did they need a four to mark me as dangerous enough to keep me locked away in _total isolation_ for as long as they please?”

He started pacing the limited length of his cell, the anger fuelling his stride.

“If I had been able to do that, wouldn’t I have taken the chance the moment you stepped into my prison for the very first time?”

He stopped and turned his face in the direction of where he presumed Jean should be, waiting for some kind of reaction from him.

Jean kept silent for longer than the Cardinal deemed necessary, but finally he said, voice barely above a whisper: “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“Can’t you _think_?! Have you never even once stopped to _wonder_? Why they allowed you to offer me that shower? Without sealing my mind off?”

He knew he was lashing out against the one person who didn’t deserve it, but he couldn’t help himself. There was no other way to get rid of his anger, nothing to distract him from it for long enough to let go of Jean. He picked up his stride again, only to be suddenly halted by the soft: “Armand, stop.”

His head whipped around, trying to focus on the point where Jean’s voice had come from.

“I am sorry. Both for not knowing and for not realising it. I will speak to them about it, but I can’t promise I’ll be able to change anything. But please, calm down.”

“You know my name,” he breathed.

“Of course I do.”

“Why do you keep calling me Cardinal, then?”

His voice had taken a desperate edge, and he fought back tears without knowing why he wanted to cry in the first place.

“Because if I started to call you by your Christian name down here, chances are that I will call you with it up there, too. And I can’t risk that if I want to keep being in charge of your imprisonment.”

He felt lost, his head bowed, when suddenly with a rush of air two strong arms wrapped around him, pulling him close, a hand cradling the nape of his neck. A dry sob escaped him, and he buried his face in the offered crook.

### 10.

“I got a new recruit today,” Jean said, even before he had closed the door. The Cardinal looked up from his bed, startled out of daydreaming by the unexpected interruption.

“He’s a low-range teleport, only a few metres at a time and he can’t teleport himself non-stop – that will probably get better with a little training – and he gets along _splendidly_ with my trio of inseparables. And now all four of them are very upset because the three were about to be sent out for a mission – they’re on the road as we speak, actually, and of course the kid wanted to join them. And they, too, wanted the kid to come with them. And of course I didn’t allow him to leave – he has to earn his postition first and I have, at this point, no idea if I can actually trust him. But he’s a hothead and not afraid to speak his mind, which, right now, is kind of in his favour because he seems honest, but I fear – Sorry, I’m talking too much.”

The mattress dipped down when Jean slumped down next to him, taking a deep breath.

“I think I found my d’Artagnan,” he stated. “And I’m not sure if I should be happy about that or not.”

The Cardinal smiled.

“If they are the same dickheads as in the book, you shouldn’t even be fond of them in the first place. But you are, so they can’t be too bad.”

“I would have named them after their historical paragons, if that wouldn’t lead to confusion with every person I mention them to. They would think I got the names wrong. Or wouldn’t be able to make the connection.”

“The musketeers’ are based on real people, too? I mean, not the musketeers in general, of course, but those from the book?”

“Yes, they are. Charles d’Artagnan, Henry d’Aramitz, Isaac de Porteau and Armand d’Athos d’Autevielle. They were all of the King’s Musketeers, but not during the height of Richelieu’s run as First Minister, more when Mazarin had already started to take over.”

There was a thoughtful silence, before Jean quietly added, as if he was speaking only to himself, unaware of his current company: “They were good lads, all of them.”

An eerie feeling crept over the prisoner from the way Jean talked about them, as if he knew them personally, like he had talked about the historical Richelieu. But before he was able to question Jean on what he meant, the Weapon huffed out a breath and rose again: “I should probably check if the kid hasn’t tried to run off after them, huh? I can totally see him trying to, at the very least.”

### 11.

_It didn’t make any sense._

He was pacing the length of his cell, head bowed, mind focused, thoughts swirling, running wild.

It didn’t make any sense.

He had spent the last hours wandering, trying to fit the puzzle pieces that made up the Weapon together, to fit a bigger picture.

It didn’t make any sense.

All his little comments, his deep and – at least the way he talked about it – personal knowledge of a time that had been immortalised by a French book he despised. His little anecdotes when his mind seemed not entirely focused on the here and now. His dismissive behaviour whenever the Cardinal asked for more, more information, more stories of those people.

It didn’t make any sense.

_Except it did._

Not the information History had on the Weapon. Not the way he had turned up so suddenly in his cell, without any prior notice, without any obvious reason to. Not him identifying more with a battlefield in the First World War than wherever – _when_ ever he came from.

But his every gesture, his every comment about himself, the way he talked about history, it only left two possible explanations, and the Cardinal had _seen_ the mind of that man, and, even if it had been for mere seconds only, he _knew_ Jean wasn’t insane.

It was a mind-blowing thought. The whole concept screamed _wrong_ in every way possible, and he knew he would have never even held onto this idea if he hadn’t already seen those memories of war, hadn’t already heard the sadness thickening Jean’s voice whenever torn out of his thoughts of the past.

What he would give to touch this mind just once again, delve into this man’s memories and see all this for himself.

He heard the door opening and swirled around, startled out of his musings.

“You’re immortal,” he blurted, too stunned to stop himself. “And you were one of them, one of the Musketeers!”

He felt like the room was suddenly growing colder, and took a step back, fumbling for the bed that should be there, somewhere behind him. A part of his mind unhelpfully supplied him with the information that he was completely and utterly at the Weapon’s mercy and that he had learned a very long time ago how to kill and would be able to do just that with everything he could lay his hands on. And with the hands besides that, too.

He tried to suppress the rising panic. But it took the soft exhale of Jean to ground him again, to get a grip of himself again, heart still racing in a wild staccato.

“I am not immortal. I just can’t die,” the other man offered, quietly, but there was no malice in his words, in his voice.

“But… isn’t that –”

“Immortality is winning. But when you start watching your family die around you, your friends, see your home crumbling to pieces, breaking apart – then you realise that you have won absolutely nothing with your inability to die.”

### 12.

Jean spent less time in his cell during their next meetings, never lingered, never said more than necessary. And he didn’t push him to. He realised he had touched a deeply personal facet of the Weapon he probably hadn’t expected to be found out. And they both didn’t know how to handle it.

He didn’t know for how long he had been stuck in that prison, didn’t know how long Jean had been taking care of him. But he had realised by now that the reason Jean kept coming back, had started to come in the first place, must’ve had something to do with him and the historical Cardinal.

And as long as he didn’t know what it was, he was pretty sure that Jean would continue coming.

He would wait.

He was used to waiting by now.

So he would wait.

The nightmares tearing him out of his sleep grew more frequent. And he still woke up to complete darkness, both visually and in his mind. He had grown used to the regular distraction Jean had provided, the easy conversation, the company, even if it was on a purely physical level, and his mind still screamed, trapped in that cage, with no way to get out.

Jean’s prominent absence gave him more time to think about what they had talked about, about what they hadn’t talked about.

Jean couldn’t die, not of old age, at least.

He had been a musketeer during the Thirty Years War, a musketeer of the King of France.

The Cardinal didn’t know a lot about French history or its historical society, but, judging by the names of the role models for the _Three Musketeers_ , one of the requirements for joining the regiment was being of nobility.

Jean had to have been of noble blood.

He had talked about his family dying, his world crumbling.

There were so many questions running through the Cardinal’s mind, fighting for a way out, but he kept his mouth shut whenever the Weapon came to visit, too aware of the fact that his last outburst had robbed him of the warden’s presence and company in the first place.

He was wandering his room again, circling the small space, six steps to, turn, two strides, turn, six steps fro, turn, two strides, over and over, when the door opened again, startling him out of his monotonous task. Was it already time again? Had he been so lost in his thoughts?

His stomach seemed to think so.

Jean didn’t say a word, yet he still knew it was the Weapon stepping into his cell, his aura quite familiar by now.

The Cardinal lowered his head, to hide his disappointment for the missing acknowledgement. He heard a low sigh from Jean.

“I’m sorry,” Jean finally said, “I… I don’t really like talking about… my inability to die. It leads to questions. And it has never really solved any problems for me. It’s the reason I don’t really make a big deal about that part of my mutation. I… shouldn’t take it out on you, though.”

“It’s alright,” said the Cardinal dismissively, after an expectant silence stretched out between them.

“No, it’s not. You of all people deserve better. I should have known you’d figure it out sooner rather than later, it just took me by surprise. But you’re left to your own thoughts, and you’re too smart not to pick up on all I’ve said.”

His shoulders sagged down with the sudden loss of tension when he heard those words. He was _sure_ he wasn’t imagining the smile in Jean’s voice.

“So, one question and an honest answer as an apology. No matter what.”

“What’s your real, full name? When you were a Musketeer? Before you came to the States?”

A stunned silence followed. But finally, after long seconds of anticipation: “Jean Arnaud du Peyrer, Comte de Trois-villes.”

### 13.

It was like he had unlocked a hidden compartment, like a dam had suddenly broken.

It was something he couldn’t have imagined even in his wildest dreams.

It was beautiful.

The change in Jean, in his behaviour after telling him his name, in the whole way he acted around the Cardinal threatened to bring tears to the prisoner’s eyes whenever the Weapon – whenever _Jean_ left. He felt bereft, even more so than before, whenever the door closed behind Jean, and like the sun itself had decided to visit him whenever the door opened to admit entry to Jean.

There was so much to this man he had never even imagined. And suddenly, he talked, without restrain, without holding back.

Sometimes only small things, little anecdotes of his life as a musketeer – “One time, during campaign, the First Minister and I got terribly drunk. He actually drank me under the table, that night. But ho, boy, how he looked the morning after.”

Other times, major things, told with the same amused voice – “I wasn’t just a musketeer, you know. I was their captain, for nearly a decade, and stood side by side with the king during many meetings of the court.”

Sometimes the Cardinal asked – “What made you leave France behind to come to live in the States?”

“The French Revolution. I thought about leaving a lot, after the Thirty-Years and Franco-Spanish wars had ended. I’m not sure anymore why I stayed that long, in the end, but during the Revolution they stripped all the nobility of everything – and there was simply nothing to keep me there, at that point.”

Other times Jean told stories by himself, without any further encouragement. – “Dumas made me a Gascon in his books. But I’m born and raised a Breton. The first time I came to Paris to join the French Guard – the regiment the King’s Musketeers were formed from, later, everyone looked at me funny because I talked so strangely. I’m still proud of my heritage, and I fully support the people trying to preserve their language and culture. They don’t need to become a separate country, though. I like being able to call myself a French citizen.

“Oh, did I tell you about my castle? It’s in Trois-villes, Château d’Eliçabéa, I build it after leaving the Musketeers. Haven’t visited in years, though I’m still the owner. There’s a housekeeper looking after it, showing it to guests who dig deep enough in Monsieur Treville’s background to find it. Maybe I should visit it again sometime.”

Sometimes, a question led to an answer far longer than he had ever anticipated. – “Your name is the Weapon. But do you actually have a weapon you’d call your favourite?”

Jean laughed.

“My rapier. It might seem like an odd choice, with the amount of weapons out there, now, but rapiers were the first weapons I could lay my hands on, and I got mine when they made me captain of the King’s Musketeers.” A wistful sigh. Probably accompanied by a wistful smile.

“There is a rule in Japan, concerning their swords, you know? Something I also did – like most of my comrades, but we were never _ordered_ to do so officially. They say, when you get a new blade, clean it every day in the first year, every second day in the next, every third day in the third and so on. There are priceless katanas, very, very few of them, that only need cleaning once a year.”

There was a softness in his voice, then.

“And I clean my rapier only once a year, by now, too. I have always treated my weapon well – and so far, it has never failed me.”

Other times, the answer was so short it ripped a hole in the whole conversation, reminding the Cardinal of a fragile peace, an absence of real trust. – “Do you have family, somewhere around?”

“No.”

Sometimes they talked about the Musketeer regiment. The Cardinal imagined his mischievous smile while he talked about the shenanigans _his noble kids_ as he called them, tried day in, day out.

Sometimes they talked about the _other_ Cardinal, to whom Jean had started to refer to as _First Minister_ , to tell them apart and Jean’s voice was soft and wistful more often than not.

If he were able to see, he was sure Jean’s smile would break his heart.

### 14.

“I remind you of him, don’t I?”

“What?”

“Your Cardinal. Du Plessis de Richelieu. I remind you of him and you still have some unfinished business with him, which is why you chose to take charge of me, isn’t it?”

He raised his head from the bed when no answer came; worry wrinkling his brows. A part of his mind cursed his captors once again for taking away his eyesight and with it even the slightest chance at observing and reading any reactions his words might have triggered in Jean.

“You speak so fondly of him, whenever we speak about anything connected to him or his work. I already know you have worked at his side _a lot_ after you became captain, but you wouldn’t even have taken a second look at my name if you didn’t feel some kind of obligation towards him.”

“Yes.”

“Yes _what_? I remind you of him? There is some obligation?”

“Armand.”

There was a desperate edge in Jean’s voice, an undertone that begged him to _let it rest, please_.

He sat up, body turned towards his warden.

“You told me to think about it. Why are you so reluctant to talk about it now? It’s not like you were secretly, fucking, falling in love along the way, but never managing to talk about your feelings before he died,” he scoffed.

The following silence was so dense you could have been able to hear a feather falling down.

“I…”

“Dear God. You _did_. He died, you never managed to tell him you loved him and now you are trying to make it up by taking care of _me_.”

“It wasn’t as extreme,” Jean managed to press out between clenched teeth.

“I was a brazen idiot at that time and he deserved so much better than what I gave him.”

“What do you mean?”

Jean seemed to fight with himself, if he should continue or just break this conversation off before it got any deeper.

“Do you have any idea what it does to one’s ego when you go to the biggest, most impressive city of your country, with only a horse, a sword and a handful of coins, and you challenge the masters of every kind of weapon you can find and beat them all, one after the other, without taking a break, not only once but three times in a row? As a child of new country nobility from an area that is usually just smiled at for their funny way of talking?”

With every word passing his lips, speaking seemed to become easier.

“I was the proudest, most arrogant, obnoxious brat in all of France. I was unbeatable. Invincible. Immortal. And I was absolutely and totally aware of that. The worst that could happen to me was being exiled, from court and from France. Or thrown out of the army for insubordination. And I acted accordingly.”

He took a deep breath.

“When I met the First Minister for the first time, we didn’t get along. At all. Not even in the slightest. I was loud, boisterous and always searching for a fight. He was silent poison and slow burning anger, only devoted to Louis XIII. And Richelieu died not even a decade after I became captain of the Musketeers, his last two years spent mostly lying in sickbeds and carried around in a litter.”

His voice turned soft, desperate.

“Do you think there was a lot of time for us? For a courtship? An affair? He wouldn’t even look at me before I became captain, I was only a soldier among thousands. And I was too stuck in my own world to even consider his company worthy of my time for the beginning of my captainship. Too much blackmailing. Too many lies. I might have been an absolute ass, but I firmly believed in honour and honesty. I still do. But by now I know that sometimes the lies are needed to prevent bloodshed. It just took me too long to realise it.”

The Cardinal felt a weird sense of loss, and tried to look for some words to say, to comfort Jean, to fill the hollowness that threatened to spread in the silence.

“He exiled me, before he died. I wasn’t even able to part with him in peace,” the Weapon added, like an afterthought, nearly too quiet to be discernible.

“When did you last see him?”

“Seventy-six days before he died. On the 20th of September, 1642.”

### 15.

He was falling.

Darkness was all around him, surrounding him, but with every second he fell the darkness got thicker.

He was falling.

His eyes opened wide and he tried to look for something, _any_ thing to hold onto.

He was falling.

The wind was chilling him to the bone, tearing at his clothes, his hair, his useless limbs. He tried to twist and managed to turn around, now facing the darkness he was falling into.

He was falling.

His mind reached out, like his hands, but it couldn’t find even one disruption in the smooth blackness all around him.

He was falling.

And he screamed.

He couldn’t hear himself, the darkness taking away all the sounds, mocking him in his helpless fall.

His head was spinning.

He was still screaming, his throat starting to feel sore.

He tasted iron.

He was falling.

He couldn’t move his fingers anymore, frozen stiff from the cold, couldn’t see his legs anymore, too far away in the darkness.

It felt like it was getting denser, pressing on his lungs, his chest, sliding over his exposed skin like snakes, but he couldn’t even try to grasp anymore, having lost all control of his limbs.

He was falling, from darkness.

He screamed.

He was falling, _into darkness_.

And suddenly, light exploded into his eyes, burning like fire, tearing the darkness away and _hurting_.

Tears sprang into his eyes, blurring his sight, and there was light and fire and whiteness and everything was far too bright and he couldn’t deal with it and he _ran_.

His mind tore into the blue, looking for anything, nothing, everything, somewhere to hide from the light, to stop it from hurting. He couldn’t see, wanted to close his eyes.

He dodged a bullet, the angry hooves of a rearing horse, ran through an endless empty hallway, a foggy, muddy trench and there was light everywhere and it was all too much and there was no way out and he tore through the walls of a fortress at the seaside, saltwater mixing with his tears and something _hit_ him and _they screamed_.

Darkness.

Finally.

Beckoning him home, shielding him from the fire. Soft and familiar.

Safe.

_His eyes are blue._


	2. Part II – The Labyrinth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Labyrinth, the:**  
>  1\. A unicursal (= has only a single, non-branching path) spiel, which’s path leads to its own centre then back out the same way, with only one entry/exit point. (≠ maze)  
> 2\. something extremely complex or tortuous in structure, arrangement, or character

## Part II – The Labyrinth

_You were once my one companion  
You were all that mattered  
You were once a friend and father  
Then my world was shattered_

_Wishing you were somehow here again  
Wishing you were somehow near  
Sometimes it seemed,  
if I just dreamed  
Somehow you would be here_

_Wishing I could hear your voice again  
Knowing that I never would  
Dreaming of you won't help me to do  
All that you dreamed I could_

_(Andrew Lloyd Webber – Wishing you were somehow here again)_

### VII.

The warm light of the candles reflect on the blade in a million little facets. I hold it up, scrutinising it one last time, the oily piece of cloth already lowered.

It’s been too long.

With every brush over the now shining steel I felt the tension of the last few months on the field draining out of me.

It’s been too long.

I am glad that the rapier didn’t take any lasting damage during this campaign. I would hate to part with it, even if there are many other brilliant swords and sword makers out there.

This one is mine.

And to me, it is special.

No matter how easy it is for me to just pick up and fight _and kill_ with anything else.

My wandering thoughts are disrupted by the quiet scratching of feather on parchment. A smile involuntarily steals on to my face while I focus on the only other person in the room.

Armand sits there, at the small desk, the candles surrounding him on all sides. He writes, for once, letters on his own – personal correspondences, I suppose. Maybe something for the king, he’s always working, always thinking about France.

He suddenly looks up, the soft scratching sound fading, a grey fringe falling over his eyes, gleaming like amber in the candlelight.

“You’re staring, Jean,” he scolds me, his lips curling around my name, giving himself a rare chance at tasting it. Even in the company of his beloved Joseph, he doesn’t usually do that and I feel another tense muscle softening.

“I’m enjoying the view,” I answer with calm confidence.

He blushes, like I thought – _knew_ – he would. Even now, he is still unable to comprehend personally given compliments.

“You’re _distracting_.”

I sheathe my sword, placing it on the seat I decide to desert, and slide over to the desk, not next to him, but where he can’t _not_ see me, if he doesn’t turn away.

“ _Am_ I?” I breathe, bending forward, one hand wrapping around his chin to watch his blush deepening while his eyes flicker between mine and my lips.

“Do you _mind_ me staring at the most magnificent person at Court?”

“Jean!”

Armand sounds scandalised, the tension in his chin telling me he wants to look around, for movement, for the wrong noises. Paranoid as he is, he can’t help it.

My grip doesn’t allow him to.

After a second, he shudders in silent surrender, his whole focus turning on me.

Finally.

“You are smart and dedicated,” I rumble, leaning closer, “passionate and loyal,” my thumb caresses his jawline, free again of the overgrown beard he hadn’t been able to take care of during campaign, “sensitive and relentless.”

Only a breath separates us now. His eyes are wide open and so, so bright. Every paper, parchment, plan seems forgotten.

“And you are mine,” I finish, closing the small distance to seal my lips on his.

It’s been too long.

I am home.

_His eyes are blue._

### 16.

The brightness hurts.

After all his yearning, all his wishing for the blasted blindfold to be removed he hadn’t expected this.

The brightness _hurts_.

He laid there, on the bed, curled in on himself, with his gaze turned towards the door, waiting.

But he couldn’t keep his eyes open.

A few minutes at a time, then they watered too strongly to make out the shape of the room. When he closed them, the brightness still hurt.

Only turning his head into the pillow, hiding his face away, helped to keep the pain at bay.

But he didn’t want to hide, not anymore.

He cursed whoever had designed this room, over and over, for he wouldn’t have half as many problems with getting used to seeing again if the light was a little less bright and the interior a little less white. Or if they would at least turn the light off at some point.

Maybe they would. He didn’t know how much time had passed since Jean had taken away the blindfold, since he had fallen through his mind into blue, into blissful, unconsciousness.

He wished for some darkness, not as total or as much as lay behind him, just enough so he wouldn’t fear to get snow blindness every time he tried to fix his gaze on the door again.

There was a hollowness in his chest, his belly. It took him a long time to realise that it was probably hunger. No one had come to him, for him, since the blindfold was gone.

No one.

Not even Jean.

He couldn’t really remember what had happened. There had been darkness, and there had been light, and blue. He felt the new set of memories neatly stacked away in some part of his brain, fragments taken back from his visit into Jean’s mind.

He hoped he hadn’t pulled them out, only copied them.

He hoped he hadn’t caused any lasting damage to Jean. It wouldn’t be the first time.

He hoped that, if he had, it might at least be the last. Jean wouldn’t want him to tear minds apart solely because they were in his way. If he ever managed to get out of here, he would try to be better.

He wanted Jean to come back.

He wanted Jean to be well, unharmed.

There was so much danger in letting someone tear through a mind, like Jean had let him, all the doors opened, all the ways cleared.

Maybe his regenerative power would have protected the Weapon from any lasting damage. It was all he wished for.

He blinked away another sheen of water, trying to clear his gaze. His ears were still more reliable. For now, he hoped.

But no steps were coming close to his cell, no Jean was coming to offer some company.

He turned his head away.

The brightness hurt.

Jean wasn’t coming.

_His eyes are blue._

### V.

The noise is soft, purposefully _unthreatening_ in a way that makes my skin crawl. It screams to me that someone just entered the room without wanting to be noticed just now and all my finely tuned battle-reflexes kick in.

I turn around, _fast_ , blade already in hand and stop its tip just a millimetre in front of my visitor’s eye. I could have killed him, if I had wanted to. But my gaze doesn’t pick up any shapes or imprints that would indicate he’s armed. Not that he could do any lasting damage even if he _had_ been. And a _he_ it is, the grey robe easily identifying him as Richelieu’s shadow.

  
My blade remains pointed in his face. He twitches back, an expression of slight unease crossing his face, before he schools it back into calm composure.

“Père Joseph,” I drawl, with a pleasant conversational tone. I turn my hand and the gleaming metal reflects the light of the room, sending ripples through its calm peace. “To which do I owe the pleasure?”

His eyes, focussed on the – to his liking probably far too close – tip of my rapier, snap to my face instead. I read rage in them, dark and brooding under his calm exterior. What did he expect when sneaking up on the Captain of the King’s Musketeers like this? _Tea?_

The blade stays where it is.

“Stay away from him,” the Capuchin finally offers, gaze locked on me in a way that makes it obvious that he is trying very hard to ignore the threat in his face in favour of intimidating me. I don’t care. I would smirk if it was anyone else, but Joseph is possibly the only person in all of France – besides the king – who can order Richelieu around and _get listened to_.

I want the Cardinal.

And if I want to have even the slightest chance of succeeding on this front I will have to get past the Capuchin one way or another.

With a graceful twirl I tuck the blade away and drop my shoulders. The tension bleeds out of my visitor like it’s following the lead of my sword’s tip.

“Why?”

His eyes are dark and troubling, even more so in the low lights of the room we’re in.

“What you want is _improper_.”

Ah, there it is. Of course he knows. Richelieu probably told him himself.

“And you’re not good for him. You’re self-centred, boisterous, arrogant and far too full of yourself. You never, _ever_ think about the consequences your actions will cause _in the long run_. His Eminence is not just some _toy_ you can play with and cast away later when you’re bored of him. He’s not some _challenge_ you can overcome and then boast about afterwards. And _I will not let you touch him_.”

That was probably the longest speech I have ever heard from the monk. I stare at him, a little surprised by his fervour, and wait until the storm in his eyes has calmed down a little, before I reply.

Where his voice was like the angry roar of a predator defending its pack or pups, mine is more like the dangerous hiss of a great cat, about to pounce on its opponent and I feel like our roles are reversed. He is the one who wants to shout and pace back and forth, and I am the one standing calmly in the centre, cunningly weaving words and arguments together to trap him behind.

Except that I’m neither a poet nor a writer.

I am not good with words.

And so I speak the first words on my mind, like I’ve always done, like I always will: “Do you truly believe that I want him as a _plaything_? Have you ever heard me having any sort of affair because I thought it was a _nice challenge_ and then casting my conquest away? The Cardinal is the most brilliant mind in all of France, all of Europe.”

The Capuchin blanches, he’s probably afraid of listeners, but _I don’t care_. Let them come, and I will take them down, in two’s, in three’s, _I don’t care_. I am invincible, and I am immortal, they have _nothing_ on me.

“He’s beautiful, he’s passionate, he’s a fucking genius, and he’s _mine_. I will court him, if it’s the last thing I do!”

The sudden silence following my outburst rings loud in my ears. The Grey Eminence has paled, but I can’t see the storm in his face anymore.

_His eyes are blue._

### III.

I knock on the door to the Cardinal’s study, firm and purposeful, even if my mind is in uproar. Just a second later I hear him calling: “Come in,” while one of the guards opens the door for me.

I step in, body tense in anticipation, and stare at the man in the centre of the room, even now clad in priceless silk, surrounded by books and rolls of paper. He gives his two musketeers a dismissive glance and the pair give a courtly bow and step outside, closing the door behind them.

I feel trapped.

“Your Eminence,” I greet him, willing my hand to the hilt of my rapier to stop it from doing anything _embarrassing_.

I can’t afford it.

I can’t even afford the usual disdain I feel for the man behind the throne, the _true_ power in France.

There is only one reason I can think of why he called me here. And if it truly is what I think I have to do _everything_ to not antagonise him.

“Musketeer de Treville, I presume?” the Cardinal finally asks, after minutes of silence, only broken by the soft scratch of his feather on the paper.

He still doesn’t look up.

Does he want to test me?

I stand up a little straighter, smooth my features as much as I can and answer, dutifully: “Honoured to serve, your Eminence.”

He looks up and gives me a tiny smile. His eyes gleam golden in the flames of the candles lit all around him. Then he turns back to the correspondences in front of him.

I am confused.

His behaviour doesn’t make sense.

I _don’t_ shuffle my feet, simply because I learned better than showing my body language to a potential enemy, especially if it might give away important information I’d like to keep secret for a while longer.

Like my growing confusion as to _why I am here_.

“You are probably aware of the reason why I asked for your presence tonight, Musketeer.”

His voice is soft like silk and wraps itself around me like velvet. I have heard the tales about him weaving magic with his words and voice, but being on the receiving end is something entirely different.

Every instinct in me shouts to _get away get out retreat_ but I _need to know_ what he will do, what he will say about my little… trick during the procession.

“I do, Your Eminence,” I reply tensely and stare at the cross on the wall behind him, refusing to meet his eyes. His gaze wanders over me, the correspondences finally discarded, and stops more or less at the spot where the blade had pierced my chest, just a few days ago.

Yet it feels like a lifetime has passed.

“You don’t act like someone recovering from a fatal injury.” He sounds more curious than reprimanding and I finally dare to lower my eyes to his face. There is still that smile playing around his lips while he continues: “How do you do it? Where did you learn it?”

“I don’t know, Your Eminence. I – it’s been like this for as long as I can remember.”

The Cardinal stands up, the soft rustle of the layers and layers of silk nearly drowning out the thoughtful sigh. His movement is full of grace when he steps around the desk, coming closer.

I do not think we have ever been this close. Not even during the procession. He is taller than I am; at least half a head, but I have faced more – admittedly only physically – intimidating opponents and refuse to step back or cower.

“It’s a gift,” I hear him murmur and I nearly start.

People have called me a demon for it. A branded child. A changeling. They tried to kill me, to hide me when they found out.

They never called if a _gift_.

“I beg your pardon?”

The question escapes me on accident, but my disbelief is real. I do not take it back.

“It’s a gift from God,” the Cardinal repeats, quiet delight in his voice. “You stepped between the King and a deadly blade without a moment’s hesitation. And your injury, which, for sure, would have killed any other man, is already completely healed. You are a _gift_ , Monsieur. A gift, given by our Lord and Saviour to protect His chosen King.”

He steps closer, seemingly ignorant of the rules of the Court and propriety. I feel the air moved by his robes, then a touch of actual fabric, cool like water, while he dances around me.

“You are _unique_ , Monsieur. And you might be the person best fitted to keep watch over our King.”

He suddenly halts, turns back to me, his eyes in a frenzy. There is genius there, in the dark amber, and burning madness lurking below the surface.

“You can protect the King like no one else,” he breathes. “So, how would you like the title of Captain of the King’s Musketeers?”

_His eyes are blue._

### 17.

He woke with a start, disoriented and with a slow, pounding pressure against his temples, strong enough to make him feel nauseous. The light was still burning and his eyes still hurt and watered, but not as bad as before.

His throat felt raw, and he vaguely recalled shouting and screaming in anger and frustration like he hadn’t done since the earliest days of his imprisonment.

He couldn’t remember falling asleep.

Maybe he had passed out.

The hammering in his head seemed to support that train of thought, especially when it got bad enough to bring him down again as he tried to stand up, his sight blacking out.

Maybe it was dehydration. He didn’t know how much time had passed since Jean had left, but he also couldn’t recall neither drinking nor eating anything.

He was so tired.

Memories were swimming around in his head and he couldn’t even tell anymore which were his and which were Jean’s. He tugged at his chains, feeling the material scrape against his skin and flinched in surprised pain. Had he also tried tearing at his manacles until his wrists were sore?

He couldn’t remember.

At least he had managed to change the position of his bound hands, having them now in front of him instead of behind his back. He did not have any memory of that, either. Maybe they were hidden behind the swirl Jean had left him.

Having his hands finally in front of him gave him the sudden relief of being able to cover his eyes without the cushion, and at least some of the pain lessened after the bright white couldn’t access his still sensitive eyes anymore.

While pressing his hands against his eyeballs, both for the welcome darkness and light relief of his horrible headache he tried to focus on what had woken him up.

There were steps coming closer.

“Jean,” he whimpered, unable to hold back, and got up again – this time without nearly passing out. He stepped towards the door, ignoring the ringing in his head, his mind trying to tell him something he didn’t have _time_ for right now. Another step and his cuffs stopped him in his tracks, not allowing him to get closer to the exit – to _Jean_.

Jean had freed him from his darkness. Jean would free him from his pain.

The ringing got louder but he simply pushed it away again, _later, not now, Jean!_

Then the door finally opened and he stared into the eyes of a blonde woman, slowly widening in sudden understanding and terrible fear.

The colour of her mind was all wrong.

The rhythm of her steps had been, too.

And something in the Cardinal _broke_.

There were no defences in the woman’s mind as he tore into it, his mind screaming at her, asking her to tell him where Jean was. It was so easy to rampage in her mind, to tear her memories apart in search of any trace of Jean, and with every memory without a result he grew more ruthless.

_He wouldn’t like it._

With a gasp the Cardinal pulled out of the woman’s mind – or what was left of it.

 _He wouldn’t like it_.

The blonde crumbled to the ground the moment he retreated, eyes empty and with a helpless, manic expression.

“Where is Jean,” she babbled, then giggled and repeated, again and again, “Where is Jean?”

He shuddered, staring at the wreck before him. Jean wouldn’t have wanted this. And he himself had sworn not to tear another mind apart like this, probably only hours ago.

Pale and disgusted with himself he looked into the blonde’s eyes one last time and whispered, both physically and with his mind, _Go_.

When she turned around obediently and scrambled off, on all fours, both the headache and the loneliness came back, stronger than before.

He deserved it.

And so he crawled back to his bed and curled into a ball, eyes closed for they were watering again.

He didn’t cry.

_His eyes are blue._

### VI.

I start out of the light slumber the warmth of the room and the end of my truly exhausting day had send me, when an unexpected weight _jumps_ onto my lap.

My hand is already drawing the small dagger on my right before my brain connects the indignant mewling to the – now thrown off – weight on my lap, and I freeze, staring at the big white Persian in front of me.

It is staring right back up again.

Adrenaline still rushing through my veins, I sit back down and, with a fluid motion, the beast jumps back up again, settling down with a content purr, the throwing off obviously forgiven. I don’t really trust the situation, or at least, my body doesn’t, too well trained for _battlefightingrunning_ , but my hand loosens its hold on the dagger to settle into the cat’s fur.

Dear God, it is so _soft_.

I am used to the scrawny strays on the streets, fighting, vicious beasts hunting rodents. Sometimes, in winter, they come to the Garrison and the stables, to get a little warmth before searching for food again.

Their fur is coarse, nearly wiry.

The snow-white cat’s is soft like a cloud, feathery, and my hand disappears in the long hair.

The purring intensifies instantly, the vibrating palpable all the way down to my feet.

A noise to my left shows another cat mustering me, the tail twitching. The black beast stalks closer and, upon reaching me, rubs its head against my leg. With the elegance given to these creatures by the Lord above it jumps on the side rest, balancing after landing with a well measured flick of its tail. It turns around again, settling down next to me, the tail touching my arm, even though there is too much fabric between us for me to feel more than a light pressure.

The black cat closes its eyes, apparently content to simply fall asleep there.

These cats have never been mistreated, I realise with shame, and they don’t know how cruel the world can be. I remember all too well the _games_ we used to play as boys, tying a cat against a tree, belly exposed, seeing who got the smallest amount of scratches when punching it. The sickening sound of a breaking ribcage still makes me more nauseous than seeing the breaking eyes of a comrade catching a bullet to their head or a sword to their guts.

My other hand, the one not buried in the white cloud on my lap, carefully settles on the head of the black one, scratching it behind its ears. It opens one eye, dark, ferocious gold, and joins in the purring, tilting its head just a fraction for a better angle.

We settle into a routine, we three, and I am nearly asleep again when the door to the room opens.

Well, one of the doors, at least. I know all too well that the cats are usually in their own rooms, with their own servant and everything. The people on the street say his Eminence’ cats are fed better than the children of Paris.

It is, most likely, true.

I look up, at Richelieu, because of course it’s him.

Against my will and better judgement, my hands try to form fists upon seeing him. The white Persian hisses and buries its talons in my leg, grounding me.

Armand looks so _old_.

Broken.

“How is he?” I still dare to ask, even though I can already read the answer in his whole stance.

His head is bowed. He holds another cat in his arms. There seems to be no life in the red, silken robes.

“Alive,” he manages to say, though his voice is hoarse. “For now,” he adds, more quietly. I am not sure if he wanted me to hear it. There is not a lot of love between Father Joseph and me. But I know how much he means to Armand. Everyone does, I think. His shadow, his friend, his confidante.

I heard about him being struck down by sickness somewhere during the day and, even though I don’t usually come to the Palais on my own, decided to take the risk and check on my lover.

It looks to me like the people were misinformed.

Joseph isn’t struck down by sickness.

He is dying, and Armand knows it.

Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but soon, and Armand can’t hide that.

He is crumbling.

“You look beautiful,” he whispers and manages a weak smile. “Sourmise seems to have taken a liking to you.”

I let him change the topic, I too, don’t want to think about the consequences Joseph’s sickness _and his death_ will have on the Cardinal and, possibly, on France.

So I smile and pet the white cat a little more, and answer truthfully, “The feeling is mutual,” while he settles down in another seat, two more cats following in his steps.

_His eyes are blue._

### II.

I see the flashing in the corner of my eye, just for a fraction of a second, but my senses are on high alert anyway and so my body is already moving when the information of a potential threat reaches my head.

I step between the King and the approaching noble and feel a blade scratching over my cuirass, sliding upwards and burying into my shoulder.

The steel is _freezing_.

I suppress a shocked moan when it brushes against the bone, the arm growing numb with the cold. The pain will follow later, I know, but right now the shock of the intruding weapon results in an adrenaline rush that protects me from any mental or physical blockage.

My left hand, of the unmarred arm, closes around the wrist of the attacker like a vice and with a flick I break it with a clean snap, staring into the widening eyes of my opponent. A whimper escapes him, high pitched, frightened, full of pain, and his eyes are tearing up.

He lets go of the dagger, his wrist at an unnatural angle on his arm.

“I will find you. Later,” I hiss and let him go. The pain of the dagger stuck in my shoulder is flaring up, thanks to the movement caused by the noble loosening his grip.

The man disappears into the crowd, cradling his broken wrist close.

I pull my blue cloak around me, over the dagger and my shoulder and wince. I need to get out of here, pull the thing out and rest for a day or two to let it heal. The whole ordeal hasn’t taken more than a few seconds and none of the other musketeers seem to have noticed anything.

As I turn around, I catch the gaze of the wide-eyed Cardinal Richelieu, flickering between my shoulder and my face, and the coldness spreads through the rest of my body.

_His eyes are blue._

### 18.

He woke up, exhausted, but without the headache that had seemed to split his head apart after tearing through that girl’s, woman’s, whoever’s mind.

His eyes were still closed – he didn’t dare open them again, afraid of the light the pain the fire the brightness still filling the room – he wondered what might have woken him up. He listened to his own breathing for a moment, the sound deeper and calmer than what he actually felt like, and finally realised there was another set of steps coming closer.

His breath stopped for a moment, hope flaring up as bright and as painful as the light of his cell, but he squelched it soon enough.

It wasn’t Jean he heard, the rhythm was different.

He didn’t want company that wasn’t Jean’s, but maybe he’d finally be able to find out where his – his _friend_ had disappeared to.

If he _had_ managed to destroy Jean’s mind.

Oh-so-carefully, he opened his eyes, letting the light flow in, and let out a sigh of sheer relief when his eyes didn’t start tearing up the second the brightness hit them. It was still uncomfortable, but for the first time since the blindfold’s removal, bearable.

With now half-opened eyes he stretched out his mind, but there was still nothing coming through the walls and nothing close enough to the open door for him to brush against.

So he waited, and listened to the steps coming closer, cautious, but echoing loudly in the silence of the hallway. He closed his eyes again, eager not to overwork them while they were slowly getting better, _and waited_.

The steps stopped in front of his cell, _of course_ they did. Tendrils of his mind stretched out again, finding blue, oh finally blue again, but it was murky, dark, so unlike the colour Jean’s mind had had.

Did colours change when the mind changed, too?

He wrapped his mind around the one of his visitor, the ability to touch it making it obvious he wasn’t wearing the helmet, and turned around as fast as he could, his eyes locking on the ones’ of the visitor.

He felt sick for a moment, overwhelmed and unbalanced – _had he just seen his own movement in the other man’s head before actually moving?_ – and when the world stopped spinning, his visitor’s eyes were closed. He had another try at getting a closer look at the thoughts and pictures, hidden in the murky blue, but pulled back, moments later, with a roiling head.

He had to look away, fighting to regain composure. What the hell was that? Looking into that man’s mind was like opening a door into a mirror room where every mirror seemed to follow a different time and movement.

“You’re Déjà-vu,” he croaked, still not looking up again, “aren’t you?”

It didn’t take a lot of effort _not_ to stretch out again, the spiralling still not completely gone.

“I am,” the man greeted him, his voice darker and softer than the Cardinal had expected. There was a hesitant intake of air, before he continued: “I suppose the Captain has told you about me, hasn’t he?”

There was a hopeful note to his words, as if Jean talking about his recruits was a good sign for the visitor.

“He might have mentioned you.”

He got up, the chain clinking quietly, and stepped closer, measuring Déjà-vu with an air of superior nonchalance he didn’t feel. What had Jean told him about the recruit in front of him? Glimpses into the future when above a certain level of adrenaline?

He managed a predatory smile and added: “You’re afraid.” A few dancing steps in Déjà-vu’s direction. “I scare you.”

Obviously involuntarily, the visitor twitched back from him, because as soon as he caught his own movement, he grimaced and straightened himself again. Instead of jumping at the Cardinal’s taunts, the other mutant managed to press out: “What did you do to the Weapon?”

There was a sharp accusation in these words and the temperature in the room dropped by several degrees.

The Cardinal’s voice was ice-cold when he answered – out of fear for Jean and because people didn’t _threaten_ him without punishment.

“I do not know what you are talking about,” he hissed, and Déjà-vu took another step back as the words lashed out at him.

“He’s gone,” the recruit answered when it was clear nothing more would come from the prisoner. “He went to your cell a couple of days ago and rushed out a while later, and he hasn’t been seen since. I want you to tell me where you sent him! Or what you did to him to send him running like that!”

“I didn’t do anything.” White-hot fury boiled in his mind. “And if you can’t figure out where he might have gone yourself, then you’re not _worthy_ of finding him. And now get out.”

“You were the last person John had –”

The Cardinal cringed at the way Déjà-vu pronounced the name of Jean – too American, too different, just wrong wrong wrong and lashed out.

He couldn’t order the recruit, his eyes still closed against the danger the Cardinal presented, but his “ _Get out!_ ” rang both in the room and Déjà-vus mind.

The visitor stumbled backwards, turned around and fled. The Cardinal was still trembling in anger and it took him an embarrassing long time to relax his muscles enough to unclench his fingers.

_His eyes are blue._

### X.

“Sire!”

I startle out of my light slumber, my eyes protesting against the bright sunlight until I shield them with my hand. One of the new servants stands there, hands behind his back, but twitching nervously.

I give him an encouraging smile, I don’t want the few people I surround myself with to be afraid of me and ask, voice still a little rough from my nap: “What is it, Jaques?”

The boy looks uncomfortable, but obediently pulls out a crumbled letter, giving it to me.

“News from Paris, Sire. The… the revolution, Sire.”

He bounces, unable to hold still and I dismiss him with a wave of my hand. Jaques is easily frightened, but a good kid. He’ll make a fine gentleman one day, he just has to grow up a little. I’ve worked with many kids who were a lot worse in my time as Captain of the King’s Musketeers.

Curious over which gossip had made my young servant this twitchy, I open the letter, my eyes flying over the lines.

Then I read it again, more closely.

And a third time.

I keep staring at the paper after I finish my third reading, my mind unable to wrap itself around the contents.

They beheaded the king and queen of France.

Nobility was disbanded, castles and houses the property of the State. Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité. Hand over your belongings and you will get a fair trial.

I get up, feeling like I’m stuck in a bad dream. A part of myself wonders if a clean beheading with their new tool would actually be able to kill me, when so much else hadn’t.

They had beheaded the king and queen of France.

They had _killed my king and queen_.

The Musketeer in me shouts for revenge, anger unfurling, but I only feel numb.

I can’t remember the last time I’ve been to Paris.

I am not even sure which Louis was on the throne before the revolutionists cut his head off. I only know it’s neither Thirteen nor Fourteen.

“What am I doing here?” a voice says and I realise belatedly it is mine. I’m not even sure what year it is. They seem to fly by, merging into each other. I’ve heard they found gold in the colonies overseas, and hasn’t there been a war in the Americas a few years back, too? I don’t know. I can’t remember, it has never seemed important to me.

“What am I doing here?” I ask again, this time conscious of my own track of thought. I need a change of air. I’ve vegetated for long enough, and France has officially handed me a reason to go.

I might be tired of living, but I don’t want to die in terror or pain, either. Maybe I can start anew overseas. Maybe I can find a new place where I will be content to stay for a while.

Maybe there I can forget the cursed amber, feverish, accusing, damning. Maybe there I can forget the rasping breath, the terrible cough, the blood on his lips.

Maybe there I can forget loving the Cardinal de Richelieu.

But how can I ever forget loving _Armand_?

_His eyes are blue._

### I.

The screams of the dying city are a nightmare.

They never stop.

I don’t remember when they started, but it feels like months, now. I haven’t had a full night’s sleep ever since.

Nothing is really happening around the siege, the fighting is mostly along the coastline; English ships against French cannons, all designed by that devil in red who seems to be everywhere at once and nowhere at all.

They say he stared down a full frigate the other day. Stayed on his sea barricade facing the battleship rushing closer and refusing to move while it fell apart on the burning wrecks in the water.

I don’t believe them. They spin all sorts of tales to keep up the moral and pass the hours of exhausting nothingness.

The siege of La Rochelle is a nightmare, designed by the devil at the King’s right, and we pawns have no say in what will happen. We are murdering women and children. I feel sick just thinking about it, even without the constant wailing that seems to follow me wherever I go on the siege line.

The sudden ring of the alarm bell is a welcome distraction from the bleak life at the siege. I can’t remember the last fight we had and my body burns full of unspent energy. I’m one of the first at the small backdoor where a last desperate stand of the city’s inhabitants tries to fight their way out. My swords sings and I feel laughter bubbling in my chest, the cries of the dying city driving me close to madness.

I feel the impact of something, not giving it any attention, and then everything goes black.

I groan in pain when light finally comes back to me and sit up, wincing at the sting in my chest.

“Monsieur!”

A shocked voice comes from somewhere left of me and a cool hand, skin on naked skin, pushes me back onto whatever I’m lying on. The camp doctor’s face appears in my field of vision, worried but also very confused.

“What?” I snap, I’ve never been comfortable around doctors and I don’t know why I’m here in the first place. “I feel fine!”

I try again to get up, but now panic mixes into the doctor’s expression.

“Monsieur, you’ve been shot, you can’t –”

I push him away, sit up and look down. There is a bandage wrapped around my chest, at the height of my heart, and only the memory of how people have reacted in the past when seeing how fast my wounds heal stops me from simply removing it.

Instead I simply say: “Oh,” and slowly lie back down. The doctor, obviously happy that I am finally complying to his wishes, starts bustling around again and tells me, babbling with relief: “We didn’t think you would make it, Monsieur. They caught you close to the heart but the bullet didn’t go in very far. You were unconscious for about two days, but we’re positive you’ll make a full recovery if you rest for a few weeks.”

 _The bullet didn’t go in very deep_. It is more likely that it had already been on the way out again, forced away by my healing body.

I close my eyes, deciding to stay, at least for a while, like the patient I’m supposed to be. The tent’s fabric is better than what we soldiers have and it’s further away from the city walls. The cries of La Rochelle aren’t inaudible, but they are fainter than they’ve ever been, for me.

It’s still a nightmare, but one I can finally bear.

_His eyes are blue._

### XI.

I’ve been pacing outside the office for several minutes now. There are voices coming from the inside, but I haven’t been called yet, no matter how urgent I think my message is.

They don’t care about the prisoners, many levels below their feet. Not as long as they stay in their cells, at least. And they don’t really have a choice in that matter.

Finally, the door opens, and Lewis, the Empath, calls me in, his voice deep and soothing, as ever. He smiles at me when I step into the room, but it flickers when he feels the anger radiating off me. I am not sure he has ever seen me angry, truly angry, because for the longest time I didn’t have a reason to get angry in the first place.

But now I do.

They spread false stories about a fellow mutant to hold him as long as they please without reproach, and I checked the criminal record of the Cardinal before asking for an appointment with the Empath.

There wasn’t much in there. Certainly not enough to justify his treatment. His rise in the ranks of the Church had been extraordinarily fast, but it had been like this the first time round, too. He had influenced people, maybe beyond count, but never to the bad.

The only serious delinquencies were where he shattered a few people’s mind’s, which, yes, makes me sick thinking about, but I know him, and he wouldn’t do this without reason to. He has always given everything to protect what he loves and believes in; it was just that his paranoia was too strong, sometimes.

“John,” the Empath greets me, his smile slightly worried now. “What can I help you with? Is one of the new recruits running riot?”

I shake my head and step closer, into his personal space, harnessing my anger like an armour. He might be taller than me, but unlike Lewis I am a warrior, and even though I am known for being able to use anything as a weapon, I also know how to kill with my bare hands. And in the rapidly fading colour of the Empath’s cheeks I see that he has remembered this, too.

“You are spreading lies about the mutation of one of the prisoners,” I accuse him with a low growl. I can’t risk showing how attached I am to the Cardinal, I can’t risk the Empath deciding to take me off prison duty again.

He reaches out, mentally, with his mutation, trying to soothe me. But I am too old not to notice Lewis’ careful meddling and flash my anger up like a darting flame.

He physically stumbles backwards and has to grab the desk behind him to regain his balance.

“What do you mean?” the Empath demands, all friendly and benevolent demeanour wiped away.

“You told people the Cardinal can influence minds as soon as he has access to them, and not only when he looks into their eyes.”

“Oh, so you broke our first rule for prison guards and _spoke_ to him?” Lewis steps closer to me, his gaze cold. He didn’t become leader of the organisation because he can lull everyone around him into a sense of happy contentment. But the Cardinal already gave me the best argument against Lewis’ accusation, he has always outsmarted me by far, and so I spit: “You gave me reason to question it yourself, when you allowed me to take him to the showers without further security measures. He could have done _everything_ , then, if he was as dangerous as you claim him to be.”

For a fraction of a second something like panic flickers over the Empath’s face, then he smooths his features again.

“He might not be able to do it _now_ , but it’s the natural continuation of his developing skill set. If he were allowed to train his telepathic skills, it would only be a question of time until he can influence people without even seeing them, and who knows what might happen _then_.”

“The Cardinal is a _man of the Church_! Have you ever even considered that he might follow his Christian values if left alone? That he just wishes to serve what he believes in instead of becoming the criminal mastermind you seem to see in him?”

I whirl around; I can’t keep looking into this man’s eyes without wanting to hurt him. When I realise I’ve been looking for a suitable weapon in the room, I close my eyes completely, cutting off the temptation all around me.

“If he didn’t realise the power in his hands himself, the Church would have done so soon enough, and I do not want to see his strength in the hands of an institution as corrupt and broken as _that_. They would try to get their old strength back and the world is a better place without them!”

“So better lock him up than risk someone deciding to use his poor and feeble mind for their own interests, is that right?”

My voice is dripping with sarcasm, and of course Lewis picks up on it, how could he not, he was born with the ability to do so.

“You’ve grown attached to him.”

His voice has a razor-sharp edge to it, but I have held discussions with the best orator of the seventeenth century and I was even able to _convince_ him of my point, once or twice. Lewis has _nothing_ on him, he’s like a fumbling schoolboy in comparison and with Armand he has attacked something of value to me.

The Empath has forgotten that there are too few things of value to me, and I am too old to care about new loyalties.

I’ve always been loyal to what was important to me. My friends. My love. My blade. My France.

But the mutant cause, or whatever Lewis is fighting for, isn’t part of that.

Being a mutant has robbed me of all that I love. Being a mutant has made me watch France falling apart, from the Empire Richelieu had brought it up to be to a cowardly mess being conquered three times in less than a hundred years.

If I had the slightest chance of getting at least something of mine back, then my two decades with the mutants won’t stop me. And it seems like Lewis needs a reminder of that.

I pick up one of the pens on the desk, turn back to him and _throw_. It barely grazes his head, but when it clinks against the wall, the sound loud in the suddenly silent room, a few strands of hair are stuck in the clip on its side.

“If you keep treating him like that, you will make a powerful enemy.”

Lewis’ eyes are wide. The threat is clear.

“You would do well to remember that,” I add quietly. I turn around and leave. There is too much energy coursing through me and beating a few of the new recruits into shape suddenly seems like a glorious idea.

_His eyes are blue._

### IX.

My eyes are firmly locked on a spot on the wall behind Her Majesty, Queen Anne, when she calls my name.

“Comte de Treville?”

None of the other courtiers are left, and even if I can’t appreciate a lot about my Queen and her rule in general, this is something I’m thankful for. It was hard enough to write the letter in the first place, how much harder would it have been if I had to explain myself in front of all the peacocks that surround Her Majesty most parts of the day?

“Your Majesty,” I acknowledge her, step out of the alcove I had hidden in for the better part of the afternoon and bow gracefully.

“Treville, is it true?”

She steps closer, and for a moment, my eyes flicker to her hands where she is clutching my letter. I still refuse to meet her eyes.

It is not that she is unpleasant to look at – she is, she looks like de Medici did shortly before her exile, fat and heavy and rotten – it is more like seeing her there simply feels wrong to me.

Standing where my King used to stand, with all his anger and energy, his blunt words.

But what is even worse is the red shadow following her everywhere, fooling my eye if I am not careful.

“Do you truly wish to resign from your post as captain of the Musketeers?”

Her voice is soft and sad, too confiding for the non-existent depth of our acquaintanceship. Unlike Louis, Queen Anne and I have never been close, and her decision to take over the throne against my deceased King’s wishes has done nothing to raise her in my esteem.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” I simply answer. I wrote that resignation letter a few days ago, but handed it to the new First Minister just this morning. Mazarin hovers next to the Queen, so much like Richelieu used to do around Louis that it hurts my very soul to see.

“But why?”

Her voice is pleading, she doesn’t want to let me go. They still call me the best fighter at court, but even if it is most definitely true, I can’t bring myself to care about it anymore.

What are my skills worth if they failed me in what I had sworn to protect with my life – my king and my love? What is my sword against the threat hidden in the shadows of sickness – and age?

People keep commenting on my youthful looks, despite my more and more advanced age. I’m nearing fifty and I look barely a day older than thirty.

“I am not young anymore, Your Majesty,” I state softly, the fight long gone from my body, extinguished like the light in the amber eyes of Armand. “And it is time to let someone more in touch with the adventurous youth of today take over the reins of the Musketeers. Someone more fitting to protect the future King of France than an old veteran like me.”

My age isn’t the only reason why I want to leave the court behind, and when Mazarin leans closer to the Queen, I am reminded once again of the deeper reason behind my decision, the one I can’t talk about.

Everything here reminds me of Richelieu. _Everything_.

The hallways and courtyards where we walked together, the sunlit studies where we used to confer about the safety of the King, the paintings, the furniture, the panels with the secret doors.

The shadow in red at the Queen’s side, who always turns out to be someone else when I take a second look.

The world has changed around me, but I am not changing with it, unable to move on, unable to age, unable to die. And since the death of my King, mere months after the death of my love, my Armand, I have been well and truly alone.

There is nothing left in Paris to hold me there.

Only the pain.

_His eyes are blue._

### IV.

My smirk widens a little when I hear the angry _tap-tap-tap_ on the marble floor of the hallway coming closer. It takes only a moment longer until his Eminence, Cardinal-Duc de Richelieu turns around the corner, his face full of thunder, the red silk billowing around and behind him.

“You!” he hisses as soon as he spots me. “How _dare_ you!”

He is furious, skin ghostly pale, eyes spitting venom.

He looks _fantastic_.

Richelieu steps right into my personal space, planting himself in front of me, towering above me. Does he think I care for his theatrics? He’s quite a bit taller than me, there’s no shame in admitting that – many men at court are – so I only slouch a little more against the wall and breathe in his smell.

This close to him the fragrance of roses bedazzles me and if knowing what caused his anger hadn’t already made me immune to his outburst, the intoxicating smell would have made me ignore _everything_.

“Your Eminence,” I reply, breathless, still unable to hold back the smirk. It has probably changed into a silly grin by now, but it makes Richelieu slit his eyes nonetheless.

“That thoughtless, brazen, idiotic remark could have destroyed everything the King and I have worked for over the past few _months_.”

He is seething, and I want to grab him and push him against the wall, kiss him until he shuts up and maybe even fuck him right here, where everyone could find us. Richelieu looks so _alive_ when he is agitated, no matter if it is excitement or passionate anger – like now.

It takes only a little shifting of weight on my part, a slight lean away from the wall and towards him to have our chests brush. The Cardinal was about to continue his rant but his words, his very breath get stuck in his throat and in the sudden silence I murmur, only inches between our faces: “And what do you think you can do about that? You can’t kill me, and I’m one of the King’s favourites, you won’t get him to exile me either.”

Louis had smiled at my comment earlier, a short, unguarded, _honest_ smile that showed me he is on my side in this, there is no danger awaiting me there.

I feel _invincible_.

I felt like that since this man in front of me turned my well-hidden curse into his secret blessing. Something of the raw energy I feel coursing through me must reflect in my eyes, because Richelieu’s pupils widen perceptively and he opens his mouth in quiet astonishment, his anger shoved aside, a tip of his tongue nervously wetting his lips.

“I see you watching me, Your Eminence,” I breathe, and he shudders, “and I don’t know what your superior motive might be, but you can’t harm me, so I’m going to take another step here.”

He is positively shaking now.

“You are magnificent. Fabulous. _Breathtaking_. And every time I see you I just dream about you giving yourself up to me. So, if it is that what you want, be assured I am waiting for you. And if not,” I lower my voice, one hand, one finger really, brushing against the soft fabric, “well, you could probably try to ruin my reputation, but I’m very sure our King wouldn’t overly like that, either.”

And with that I leave, saunter away with an overly theatrical swagger, not looking back.

He will come to me. Because he wants to.

_His eyes are blue._

### 19.

He was pacing. Not counting his steps anymore, because he could actually _see_ the wall – still too white, too bright, but he was _so hungry_ to take in all of the world around him now that he could see again _and_ his eyes had stopped tearing up whenever he opened them.

He was pacing the meagre length of his bonds and his cell, looking for details he might have missed an hour or five ago.

It was both exhilarating and exasperating, frustratingly so. Seeing again, without the pain, was fantastic, fascinating and he felt himself getting excited about the smallest things, a newfound appreciation for his eyes warming him like golden sunlight on a cold winter day.

But the place of his explorations was so _limited_. Six steps long, two strides wide, and with the shackles in front of him it was a lot more awkward than he had expected. He also was still unable to reach the door of his cell, even if it was now open, and thus unable to access anything more with his mind than what was directly in front of the door, the shielding as unyielding as ever.

The Cardinal stopped his stride, raised his head and turned it towards the door.

Steps were coming closer.

He closed his eyes for a moment, listened with more care than he would have been able to with the visual distraction. It wasn’t Jean, of course not. He hadn’t gotten his hopes up again since Déjà-vu had told him about the Weapon’s disappearance.

He had more than a vague idea where Jean had fled to. It wasn’t that hard to figure out, not when you knew who he truly was.

Which his recruits obviously didn’t.

The Cardinal was afraid what the memories, the thoughts, still coursing through his head implied, Jean’s little, hopeful smiles, his sudden flight after letting the Cardinal into his mind.

He pushed the thoughts aside, focussing on the steps coming closer, relatively sure it was Déjà-vu again. The visitor reached the cell shortly after, and like the first time, the other mutant had his eyes carefully closed.

“Déjà-vu,” the Cardinal greeted him, brushing against the murky blue, but not dipping below the surface for a closer look. “You have a bargain to offer?”

Déjà-vu flinched, and, with some satisfaction, the Cardinal observed the rapid change of emotions blurring the surface of the other man’s mind.

“If I help you get out of here, will you help us find the Weapon?”

“You mean yourself and your three sidekicks, don’t you?”

The four Musketeers that weren’t. Déjà-vu, the Boulder, Eagle’s Eye and the teleport, whatever his name might be.

The other mutant didn’t even try to hide his surprise anymore. He wouldn’t have been able to do so, anyway.

“Yes, but the rest of the recruits would cover for us, too.”

“It is just that you four will do the fieldwork, I know, I know.” The Cardinal danced around his visitor, as far as his bonds allowed him to. “And you truly think no one will find out where you went to? No one will wonder what happened to that high security prisoner your beloved Weapon had been in charge of?”

Déjà-vu clenched his teeth.

“They would never betray us. They –”

“Maybe not willingly. But I am not the only mind reader out there. The very leader of your organisation has the power to make people talk, even if they might not mean to do so.”

Another set of dancing steps. Another soft brush against the other mind, now torn and questioning.

“If I tell you where to find Jean, someone else, someone who isn’t supposed to know, will find out.”

“So you know where he is?”

“I have a pretty good idea, yes. There is more than one place I can think of. Which is obviously already more than you are able to come up with.”

“So, what do you propose?” Déjà-vu asked, voice faint, flat.

“Let me go and talk to him alone.”

_His eyes are blue._

### VIII.

“Armand!”

I close the door behind me, my hands trembling, and look for the restless shape in the room. It’s the middle of the night, but his schedule has grown more and more erratic over the last months.

And I don’t have the patience or energy to wait, not after the letter the runner from the palace handed me earlier today.

“Armand?” I try again and finally spot him, half-hidden by the shadows the candles throw all around the room.

Richelieu stares at me and for a moment, there is no recognition in his eyes. Only anger, panic, paranoia.

Then it crumbles, from the statesman to the person, from blank fear to devastation, confusion. He is swaying on his feet, exhaustion more than apparent, and I take a step forward, towards him, but something in his intense gaze nails me to the spot.

“Why are you here?”

His voice is hoarse, the melodic silk replaced by coarse wool and he turns away to clear his throat.

The spell is broken; I step closer, placing the letter on the table, between the candles.

“What is the meaning of this?” I croak, “Why are you sending me away?”

He shudders, the fire glinting in the golden eyes, not only reflected, but also burning from within. He is feverish again, but there is no one left to stop him. He has evaded private meetings with me with frightening success since the Cinq-Mars incident and I try to give him space, but even on the street they started to talk about him dying.

I can’t ignore it any longer.

And I don’t want to spend more time apart than absolutely necessary, especially not now that I have to face the fact Armand’s days are numbered.

So why is he exiling me?

I know it wasn’t on the King’s wish, I’ve seen him today, his furious glances at his First Minister, the apologetic look he had sent in my direction.

The feral look Richelieu gives me before opening his mouth to answer is already answer enough. There is a sick satisfaction in that expression and with the icy cold crawling down my spine I feel my heart breaking, only a little, but it _hurts_.

“You tried to support the traitor Cinq-Mars,” he rasps, “You offered to _kill_ me.”

It takes all my self-control not to stumble away at those words. Armand _knows_ the real reason behind that comment of mine. I was helping him _gain information_. But Richelieu, trapped in his head, in his own terrifying world full of enemies and nightmares, seems to have forgotten that.

A part of me wants to fight back, to reply, to correct him, explain myself, but I am not here to fight. I have done that all my life.

I am here to make peace, to understand, to support as best I can.

And I don’t want to go away. Not now.

I drop my shoulders, step towards him, and Richelieu scrambles backwards.

“Stay away!” His eyes are wide and frightened, again, his moods shifting faster than ever. “Please,” Armand says, and it sounds nearly as soft as it used to.

I stop, everything for Armand, always.

Then the coughing starts.

It is out of the blue, deep, rough and terrible, a noise made for nightmares. His surprise when he crumbles on the spot, no support helping him stay upright, is quickly replaced by resignation. It is, apparently, not the first time.

I jump forward, catching him before he smashes on the ground completely.

Dear God, the _smell_.

He curls into my embrace, only for a moment, before shoving me away. His lips have an unnatural moist glint, dark red even in the candlelight.

I have never wanted to kiss him more.

He looks so fragile, curled in on himself, yearning, _craving_ for contact, but too afraid to ask or even accept it when offered. His skin is drenched in perfume and sweat, but now that I have smelled the stink that surrounds him close up, it is like he is rotting from the inside, even the strongest fragrance of roses can’t hide it from me anymore.

“I don’t want you to see me die,” Armand chokes, once he is able to breathe again. There is a sheen of tears spreading over his eyes and I suddenly understand.

“It’s okay,” I murmur and get down on my knees to help him up again. “There is no need to protect me. I can bear it. I want to –”

The same wild glint flashes up, but I realise too late, and Richelieu’s, Armand’s voice is cold like ice when he interrupts me.

“You always ever only think about yourself, don’t you? Ignorant and mindless, pursuing what _you_ want without stopping to think about possible consequences. Did it ever cross your mind,” he lifts his head there, stares right into my eyes, right into my soul, with burning gold, crazed and cruel, “that I do not send you away to protect _you,_ but myself? That I don’t want you near, untouched by sickness, while I wither away, that I don’t want you watching while my body fails me?”

Every word of his is a knife to my guts and my eyes are blurring, but still he continues, ploughs on through the terrible coughs that have started again, shaking him, but he never turns away.

“You are a demon, Jean. You don’t get sick, you do not age, _you cannot die_. You _should not exist_.”

Armand is heaving, trying to get enough air, but the cough keeps shaking him, he’s on all fours now, his hands like claws, scrambling for purchase on the ground.

Our eye contact breaks, still I stay, rooted to my spot.

For a moment, there is only silence.

“I love you, Armand.”

My voice sounds as weak and broken as I feel. He raises his head again and his eyes are like fire, dark burning embers, the colour of molten gold.

“Get out,” he spits, “I don’t want to see you again.”

There is blood on his hands, on his lips. He stares at me with unadulterated fury, trying and failing to suppress another terrible cough.

I run.

I love you, Armand.

Get out. I don’t want to see you again.

_His eyes are blue._

_Why are his eyes_ blue _?_


	3. Part III – The Sanctuary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Sanctuary, the:**  
>  1\. a consecrated place, such as: the most sacred part of a religious building, the room in which general worship services are held or generally, a place for worship  
> 2\. A place for refuge and protection

## Part III – The Sanctuary

_Je marche seule et chaque nuit  
Les rues de la ville m'appartiennent  
Toutes mes pensées s'envolent vers lui  
Et je mets ma vie dans la sienna  
Paris dort; dans le noir  
Je peux m'inventer mon histoire_

[...] 

_Je sais bien que j'ai tout inventé  
Je sais bien qu'il n'est jamais à mes côtés  
Et pourtant, je continue à croire  
Qu'avec lui, j'écris mon histoire_

[...] 

_Oui, je l'aime  
Mais je suis seule au monde  
Toute ma vie j'ai attendu une ombre  
Mon histoire  
Est une coquille vide  
Un rêve plein de douceur  
Dont je n'ai jamais eu ma part_

_(Alain Boublil – Mon Histoire)_

_Click._

And just like that, the cuffs were opened. The Cardinal stared at his hands in wonder, the wrists still red and sore, but suddenly _free_. He could move them _separately_. Wild laughter bubbled inside of him, but nothing more than a strange, disbelieving grin made its way to the outside world.

His pupils were blown wide, he knew, full of wonder and a sudden sense of power, when Déjà-vu interrupted his fascinated observations of himself.

“If we’re lucky, you’ll have two, maybe three hours, before they realise you’re missing. We got you out of the building, but from here, you’ll have to manage on your own. There’s a bigger road, about two miles in that direction,” he pointed east, “Where you should be able to find someone to take you further, wherever you need to go to find Jo- Jean.”

Déjà-vu took a deep breath, looked back to the other three members of Jean’s newly titled Musketeers. His eyes were full of determination when he turned to the Cardinal again, no longer afraid to meet the telepath’s gaze.

“We want you to hide our memories of us helping you, so the Empath can’t get us to betray you. Can you do that?”

The Cardinal stared, first at Déjà-vu and then at the others for a long minute.

“You know I will have to invade your minds for that, possibly leaving irredeemable changes?” Richelieu was baffled by this display of trust from these four kids, who had been his enemies mere days ago – or, more precisely, people who viewed _him_ as the enemy. He didn’t want to hurt them, not for their sake, but for Jean. They were important to Jean, and he wouldn’t excuse the Cardinal harming them.

_It had been one of the major sources of fights between Cardinal de Richelieu of France and the Captain of the Musketeers, Richelieu’s cold disdain for my recruits –_

The Cardinal shook himself out of the memory, fighting for a moment to stay in the here and now.

“We know,” the Boulder – the bulkiest of the four – answered, his skin of a dark, earthen quality. “We spoke about it together, and decided it’s the best course of action. Let the Empath believe you freed yourself because you could get into our minds, without the helmet there to protect us.”

“He doesn’t care about the Weapon leaving as much as we’d like him to,” Eagle’s Eye agreed, “but they had quite the fallout, only a few weeks back.”

“I know,” the Cardinal said, his voice flat. He had seen that memory, Jean’s cold anger on his behalf, his threat towards the Empath, his disregard for Mister Lewis’ attempts at soothing his emotions.

Richelieu nodded softly.

“Alright, I will seal the memories away.”

“I will go first,” Eagle’s Eye volunteered, before the Cardinal could add anything else. He stepped forward, locking his strangely-coloured, strangely formed eyes on the telepath’s.

The Cardinal placed his hands on the younger man’s shoulders, stabilising himself before dipping below the surface of his thoughts. He hadn’t done this in years, but the memory of the _how_ was ingrained deep into his being.

Finding the most recent memories of Eagle’s Eye was easy, and with the explanation behind this decision of the four he wasn’t overly careful in choosing what he locked away.

 _Aramis_ , he whispered into the mind, sealing the memories away. The word, the _name_ spoken to Eagle’s Eye, would free the hidden memories, and if Jean decided to come back, he could break his recruit’s mind-seal himself.

The Cardinal planted a last order in the other mutant’s mind, sending him back to the training yard, to wait there for the others. When he slipped out of Eagle’s Eye’s mind, the man simply turned and walked away, single-mindedly following the planted order.

“Tia!” the Boulder called at him, worry in his voice. Eagle’s Eye didn’t seem to hear him, but before the Boulder could follow him, the Cardinal interrupted him: “I sent him back to the yard, to wait there for the rest of you. He will not stray from this order until it’s been fulfilled.”

Fear flickered through the Boulder’s eyes, realising, maybe for the first time, what dangers the Cardinal posed.

I will go next,” the youngest declared into the silence, determination written all over his face.

“Luke, are you –,” Déjà-vu tried to ask, but cut off at the vigorous nodding.

“You need to go last, Tom, and Howie needs to calm down first. I’m ready!” He focused his whole being on the Cardinal, and Richelieu couldn’t suppress an amused smile sneaking on his face.

Melting into other people’s minds felt as easy, as natural as breathing, and the feeling of power was even more exhilarating than the moment earlier, when he had finally been freed from the handcuffs.

 _D’Artagnan_ , he murmured into the mind, planted the order and retreated. As soon as his hands had left the shoulders, the body dissolved into mist, reappearing a few metres in the direction of where Eagle’s Eye had disappeared to.

The Cardinal turned towards the Boulder, raising an expectant eyebrow. The other mutant clenched his teeth, then nodded and stepped forward.

Slipping into the Boulder’s mind was like pushing your hands into forest earth, just after rain. It had the same colour, dark, rich brown, and a cool, water-like ripple ran down the Cardinal’s spine. He resisted the temptation of soothing away the Boulder’s fear of him and simply hid away his memories, sealed behind with the uttered promise of _Porthos_ and finished with the same order the two others had already received.

And suddenly, he was alone again with Déjà-vu.

“Will you tell me where you’re going? Not, not exactly where, of course, but the region, maybe? I know I’ll forget it again, soon, but I would like to be sure you have a plan.”

“You weren’t sure before and still helped me?” the Cardinal jeered.

The clenched jaw of his companion gave him more satisfaction than he would have expected.

“I know the Weapon trusted you, and that you did something, _gave_ him something that made him happy. For me, for _us_ , that was already reason enough to help you. I just want to confirm you won’t suddenly abandon us, now that you’re free again.”

They stared at each other, Déjà-vu’s expression one of challenge and defiance.

The Cardinal exhaled without sound.

“France,” he offered, off-handedly, “Paris, if you want a more precise location.”

Confusion spread over Déjà-vu’s features.

“Why would he –” he started, before breaking off and nodding. “Alright, I believe you. I wouldn’t have expected you to leave the continent to find him, he seems so…”

“He’s a lot older than you all think he is.”

The Cardinal wouldn’t give Déjà-vu more information. It wasn’t his story to tell, his secret to share. He raised his hands in a questioning gesture and the other mutant stepped obediently closer.

The murky blue surrounded the Cardinal in moments. The missing mirror-effect he had experienced the last few times was all the more proof of the trust this mutant had for him.

 _I will not disappoint you_ , he promised, _I_ will _find him_.

Then he sealed Déjà-vu’s memories away too, with a whispered _Athos_. He sent him back to his three friends, told him to continue like everything was all right. When he extracted himself from the other mind, Déjà-vu blinked at him, without any recognition visible in his eyes, turned around and left.

The silence the sudden loneliness brought reminded the Cardinal so intensely of his imprisonment that he nearly crumbled in a bout of dizziness.

But there were birds, singing around him, there was the rustling of leaves by small animals running through the undergrowth around him and the soft background noises managed to ground him again.

He took a deep breath and started to walk in the direction Déjà-vu had pointed earlier.

* * *

It didn’t take him long to reach the road, but he felt so exhausted that, for a moment, he questioned his whole endeavour. He just wanted to lie down and rest, his hands shaking from exhaustion, his eyes already tired from taking in all the colours around him. He leaned against a tree, closing his eyes just for a second, and was startled out of a light slumber at the sound of a car coming closer.

His eyes met those of the driver for just an instant, and, still half asleep, simply ordered him to _stop_.

With screeching tires the car came to a halt, still a few metres away from him, and he saw the terrified surprise in the driver’s face, staring at him with his unkempt beard, long hair and white cassock-like prison garb.

The Cardinal stepped towards the passenger door, and, upon opening it, realised how close together he still held his hands, so used to the cuffs that it felt like their natural position by now.

Anger spiked through him, and he flopped down onto the seat with a furious scowl.

The driver, a fat, balding man in his late thirties, early forties maybe, flinched and grabbed the steering wheel tight enough for his knuckles to turn white.

“Where is the nearest International Airport?” the Cardinal asked, instead of a greeting.

“What the fuck,” the man answered, still shaking.

 _Patience_ , Richelieu told himself, taking a deep breath to calm down again. He turned his head towards the driver, who, reflexively, looked back and said: “I need to get to the closest International Airport. Take me there.”

Automatically, the man started up his car again, before the given information, the given order seemed to have sunk into his brain.

“The nearest International Airport is in New York,” he stated, confusion in his voice.

“Then _take me there_.”

“But – it’s a couple of hours drive from here and I actually wanted to –”

The Cardinal clenched his teeth.

“I don’t care. Get me to New York.”

“Sir, with all due respect –”

The driver glanced towards his passenger, met his gaze, and his protest died in his throat, the Cardinal’s mind easily overcoming his. Fear and adrenaline rushed through the other man, over his inability to refuse the given order, over this unkempt stranger overpowering him so easily in a non-physical way.

The Cardinal broke eye contact, sighing quietly. He used to be better than this, better at planting suggestions, at influencing people. But there were too many things on his mind and he was, plain and simple, out of practice.

“Armand Richelieu,” he offered, hoping the man would recognise the peace offering.

He stole another glance at his passenger, saw how the angry scowl had softened, and managed to crack a weak smile.

“Charles Valentine,” he introduced himself, “but – but please, just call me Charlie.”

They stayed silent again for a while, Charlie driving onwards, stealing glances at the Cardinal, but Charlie’s mind had calmed down considerably. He now looked like he was dying to ask some questions, but was unsure of how to approach that.

Even though the Cardinal appreciated the silence, he decided to break it, if only to satisfy some of Charlie’s curiosity. So he asked for today’s date. Then the year. And cold dread filled him when he heard the answer, helpless anger and despair taking over his features. He stared out of the window, away from Charlie, a loud buzzing in his ears that droned out the worried questions of his involuntary driver.

Charlie realised soon enough there was no getting through to him in this state, while he was still trapped in his own thoughts, shut up and turned on the radio instead.

The music calmed the Cardinal down, grounding him and taking the buzzing in his ears with it. Breathing became easier again, and, grateful for the senseless background noise, he closed his eyes, finally succumbing to the exhaustion.

* * *

He woke up to a voice he had only ever heard in memories that weren’t his and his mind instantly spread out to get a feeling for his surroundings.

It felt strange, not being restricted in his ingrained activity anymore, and even stranger to find quite a few other minds moving around him, the closest one being Charlie at his left.

They had reached the highway, his eyes supplied belatedly, the road meandering like a great, grey stream through the dark hills and green forests around them. He kept staring, distracted for the moment by what had woken him, still unused to his eyes being able to supply information again, too. They hadn’t been of any use for the last few years, after all.

The last few years.

Dear God, he had lost so much time.

Before the helpless, angry feeling managed to paralyse him again, the conversation on the radio – the reason he had woken up in the first place – drew his attention.

“ _…so you should be careful not to take any hitchhikers with you in the upper east coast area. We are still live with Mister Alexander Lewis of the Governmental Mutant Registration Office._

“ _Mr. Lewis, you already mentioned one of your long-term custodians managed to escape last night or early this morning. Can you tell us something about this runaway mutant? And what is it that your organization does with protégés like him?_ ”

“ _He is an older mutant, a telepath whom we took in because he was not able to control his mutation to a point where he became a threat not only to himself but the public, too._

“ _He managed to befuddle his caretakers, leaving very obvious trails of his mind work, because he cannot properly work with the telepathic mechanics he has access to. We here at the office believe that his mutation manifested very late in his life – usually they make an appearance during puberty – and is still not used to his new abilities. In Mutant circles, he is nicknamed_ Cardinal _, because he was under the Church’s influence when we found and freed him._ ”

“Liar!” the Cardinal hissed, his fingers digging into the fabric over his legs, wrists still held unnaturally close.

“ _But please do not be mistaken about how dangerous he is_ ,” Mr. Lewis continued. Charlie threw him an insecure look and Richelieu easily picked up his thoughts, putting one and one together and identifying his passenger as the runaway Cardinal.

“ _He severely damaged the mind of one of his wardens, we don’t yet know if it was on purpose – but both options simply underline his dangerousness – and the importance of us finding him._ ”

“ _How so?_ ” the moderator asked, while the Cardinal stared at the radio as if his gaze could set it on fire.

“You dirty liar,” he whispered, voice choking.

Unfazed, unable to hear him, Lewis continued: “ _Isn’t it obvious? If it was accidental, it shows how little control he has – and if it was not, it shows what little morals he has to do that to a person. It is_ vital _,_ ” he addressed the general audience, “ _that you report any information you have on his whereabouts to our office immediately, so we can take him back here, where we can properly care for him._ ”

Charlie’s thoughts were running rampart next to the Cardinal, measuring him up without wanting to be obvious. They added a less vague description of him on the radio than the already mentioned _older telepath_ and Charlie gripped the steering wheel tighter, his fingers clenched around the black plastic again.

“I wish you no harm,” Richelieu promised, still following the interview with helpless despair.

“So you _are_ the Cardinal, then?” Charlie stared straight out on the road in front of him, his fingers still clenched.

“ _I am_ ,” he answered, _But what they are saying is all lies._

The driver flinched, one hand twitching towards his forehead, but falling down again the next instant, turning down the radio volume instead with his shaking fingers.

“What lies do you mean?” Charlie asked, still refusing to meet the Mutant’s eyes.

“I wasn’t their ward, I was their _prisoner_. They bound me and blinded me” _and deprived me of any human contact, no one nothing emptiness and –_

“Stop!” Charlie croaked, distress in his voice, one hand flailing helplessly between the wheel and his brows. “I don’t know what you’re doing and why you’re doing it but stop sending all me all these _fucking_ pictures and speak like a normal –” he stopped himself there, realizing his own foolishness in the chosen word and continued, a little subdued: “like a _polite_ person.”

The Cardinal stared at his driver. He hadn’t realized he had been broadcasting his thoughts and feelings while talking – or instead of talking, he wasn’t sure. Broadcasting hadn’t happened to him for a long time.

He hadn’t had any mental contact with other people in years.

“I – I will try,” he conceded and a slightly uncomfortable silence fell, disrupted by the moderator announcing a short break from the interview and playing some music instead.

Despite the distress Charlie had felt during his short outburst, he was a lot calmer now. The unintentional sharing of the Cardinal’s own mind had shown him that there was more to the story than Lewis wanted them to know.

“Would it be alright if I called a buddy of mine in New York? So I might have a place to crash tonight?”

Richelieu rifled through Charlie’s thoughts, looking for signs of betrayal, and nodded when he only found honest intent. The driver pulled out an elegant, flat device the likes the Cardinal barely remembered making their first appearance shortly before his capture.

With fast and deft fingers, Charlie unlocked the screen and, still watching the road, expertly navigated the menu, before pressing it against his ear, barely even glancing at the little wonder he held.

The Cardinal felt lost again. Isolated as he had been during his time in the prison he had no idea of all the things, technological and otherwise, that he had missed.

He didn’t even know who the current president was.

And Jean didn’t seem overly interested in modern technology, either; at least none of the memories now in the Cardinal’s head acknowledged the progress in any way.

“You alright?” Charlie asked, phone already hidden again. Richelieu opened his mouth, then closed it again.

He wasn’t. How could he be, really?

“You seem a little overwhelmed.”

“I’m okay,” the Cardinal said, voice rough, turning his head towards the passenger window again to hide his face until he had won back control over his features.

Before any of them had a chance to continue the conversation, Richelieu’s stomach growled loudly into the relative silence.

“Yeah, getting food sounds like a good idea, something for the road, it’s still a pretty long ride.”

The telepath turned towards his driver to find him cracking a crooked smile at him. He let his eyes wander over the Cardinal for a moment.

“And we should get you some regular clothes to wear.”

With that, he took the next exit off the local highway.

* * *

Richelieu felt like a new person, back on the road again, his prison garb exchanged for simple jeans and a t-shirt. He had had to wait in the car while Charlie went out shopping, the driver too worried about people seeing and recognizing him to let him out in the white cassock.

The Cardinal had followed the movement of Charlie’s mind during his whole absence, still fearing betrayal, still not really trusting Charlie’s acceptance of his side of the story, the soft pity he felt whenever brushing against the driver’s thoughts.

Then they had stopped at a small barber shop, hidden between all the over-sized stores full of unnecessary knick-knacks. There, before Charlie even had a chance to say anything, Richelieu had slipped into the barber’s mind, not only making sure his beard would be cut back into his usual goatee – he decided to keep the hair at the new length, simply cleaning it up a little – but also ensuring the barber would forget all about the little encounter afterwards.

Charlie still insisted on paying for the service, before Richelieu could simply turn and go.

And then they had got something to eat, more than they needed so they’d have some more for the rest of the journey to the megacity. He hadn’t felt this alive in ages. Maybe not since the time Jean had taken him to the showers.

He caught himself smiling gently, the constant scowl on his face softened.

The nature around them had changed over the last few hours – still wide and vast, but the green forest hills had given way to more open grassland, still with some forests, of course, but it wasn’t forest all the way through anymore.

In the end, New York was faster upon them than Richelieu had expected.

They were still on the outskirts when Charlie stopped his car, in front of a nice-looking family home that must have belonged to his friend. Richelieu’s order had only asked for New York, and the Mutant felt reluctant to ask for more of his driver, after Charlie had bestowed so much unexpected, unasked for kindness on him throughout the whole journey.

“Is it alright if you take public transport from here? Going into the city with a car is hell and I’m –”

“Charlie, it’s fine. You don’t need to justify yourself.” Richelieu hesitated for a moment, struggling with himself, before he continued, voice subdued: “Thank you. You’ve been… you’ve been more than accommodating. When I come back, I’ll repay you for your help.” He cracked another smile. “That’s the least I can do.”

Charlie looked nervous at the word _repay_ , but his answering smile after the Cardinal had finished was full of honest joy.

“You don’t need to repay me,” he said, looking straight into Richelieu’s eyes, “but I’d love to hear afterwards how your whole expedition went. I don’t even know where you want to go!”

Charlie laughed.

“Paris,” the Cardinal stated, still smiling coyly. “I want to go to Paris.”

“Can I ask why? Or will you have to delete my memories, if I know?”

Richelieu’s smile fell.

“The only person who treated me like a human being during my imprisonment is there.” He clenched his fist, looked down. “At least I hope so.”

“…Oh. Good luck, then. You’ll manage on your own from here?”

The look the Cardinal send in Charlie’s direction broadcasted a very plain _I’m a telepath, you imbecile, what do you think_ into the drivers mind, but there was no malice in the words and the fat, little man started giggling like mad.

“Off you go, then.”

And so Richelieu went.

* * *

He _didn’t_ manage on his own. Getting into New York itself wasn’t the problem, public transport ran perfectly fine and no one was able to stop him from going in without a ticket – one of the advantages of being able to make people turn a blind eye without them even realising it.

But Richelieu had forgotten how _many, many_ people lived in New York and how many more were also there simply to visit it.

He had lost any sense of orientation a long time ago. Too many minds around him, too many emotions to see the city. Instead of seeing the world around him he was slowly drowning in a maelstrom of thoughts.

He didn’t know where he was.

He didn’t know where to turn.

He couldn’t remember the exact shade of blue Jean’s mind had been and that might have been what scared him the most. The blue had been his life-line these last few days, weeks, months.

He let himself drift, carried away by the masses of people around him.

There was nothing to hold onto.

He was alone.

And he was afraid.

Nowhere to hide, nowhere to go. All sensations felt so far away, but still too close, his mind reeling away from every touch, both physical and mental, his body was too numb to react to either.

Something pulled him out of the stream, took him away from the ever-flowing city around him, a memory, a triggered emotion, and an old feeling of safety and _home_.

He stumbled through a door, the sign of the cross on his chest jittery, his hands shaking. His knees gave way under him, the smooth stone anchoring his knees to the ground, the coldness seeping into him when he pressed his hands on the floor to stop the world from spinning.

 _Help_ , he thought, the word tiny and weak in his mind.

Someone passed him by, squeezed his shoulders reassuringly and started speaking – not to him, they had already moved farther behind him, but even if the words had been addressed to Richelieu, he would not have heard them. The touch to the shoulder had unclenched something deep inside of him and his mind held onto the stranger’s thoughts.

He stood in front of the sea, the roaring of waves all around him, crashing against the cliffs to his feet, and the thundering water took everything away.

The spinning colours. The drowning sensation. The darkness inside and the light outside of him.

Before his mind finally shut down, pulling him away from his overstimulated senses, he heard a soft rumbling voice, felt the soft reassuring touch to his shoulders.

“Be at peace, Armand. I have you now. You are safe.”

* * *

He woke up to darkness around him and panic welled up inside him.

Had it all been a dream? New York, his release from prison, _Jean_?

His mind lashed out, against the walls of his cell – and swept away, rushed through a sleeping city, rushed through a city that never slept, rushed through a million souls around him.

He listened to his own breathing, how it calmed down again, and blinked, relishing a feeling of weightless freedom. The ground he was lying on was solid, but not cold. It was too dark to see, but there was no blindfold to _stop_ him from seeing. And his hands were free to move separately.

A breathless laugh wanted to escape him and his shaking fingers – only one hand, still hard to believe – ruffled through his hair.

He heard steps coming closer, opening a door behind him, and soft light flooded his resting place, framing his visitor from behind.

Curious, he send out a tendril of his mind, brushed against the other man’s. He remembered the ocean-like sensation that had accompanied him into the darkness, had carried him away from his whirling thoughts when their minds touched.

“Ah, you’re awake,” Richelieu was greeted, and the man stepped inside the hallway-like room. The light followed him, illuminated the walls and thus the names engraved on it.

“You’re in the crypt of Saint Pat’s Cathedral, New York,” the other man answered his unasked question. “I heard you calling for help – in here.” He tipped his hand against his temples, then offered the telepath a hand to get up.

“I thought it best to hide you away and let you calm down for a bit, you seemed pretty distraught.”

Richelieu got up, too baffled to refuse the offered help. His eyes flickered over the clothing of the other man before snapping back to his eyes.

“You’re the Archbishop of New York, Your Eminence,” he rasped in surprised wonder and nearly sank down again to kiss the hem of the Cardinal’s robe. He was stopped by the Archbishop himself, who held him up by his shoulders and softly shook his head.

“I am, but you are a guest of my church, for you came here to seek help, Armand. Yes, of course, I know who you are, my son.”

The Bishop’s voice softened considerably, but his touch never stopped, not even when the instinct to run kicked into the Mutant upon the use of his name.

 _How_ , he wanted to ask, and the Archbishop smiled.

“They took you away from us against our wishes when you disappeared. When they reported your escape today, I started praying for you to find your way into one of our Houses of God, to find your way back to your brothers and sisters. How happy I am that it was my diocese you decided to set foot into.”

The statement overwhelmed Richelieu, but he knew the Archbishop’s words were honest and true.

“I can’t stay long,” he whispered, his declaration still loud enough to be easily understood in the empty cathedral. “I – I thank you, Your Eminence, but I can’t stay long – there is a man who helped me escape my prison, and I need to find him.”

“Of course, my son. But please, all in its proper time. Allow me to share a humble meal with you first, and tell me about your journey – I would greatly enjoy helping you on your way with whatever aid I can offer you.”

Despite his kinds words, the Archbishops thoughts were angry – at those who had dared to harm someone of the Church they both served, or used to serve.

The Cardinal led Richelieu out of the nave, where all the other minds had seemed so far away, separated from the mutant by smooth stone and protective walls, and invited him into his own home. A clock told the Telepath that it was closer to morning than to midnight, he must have been unconscious or asleep for longer than he had imagined.

The meal was indeed nothing major, but it was still more than he had had during his imprisonment, and he relished each tiny bite. For a moment, he didn’t feel like he was on the run, didn’t feel the need to rush, wasn’t endured because of pity.

The Archbishop watched him with infinite patience, taking a bite every now and then himself. Richelieu could read the questions in his mind and started sending answers while still in the middle of his meal.

An amused smile, and an equally careful but purposeful thought _we can speak after you are finished_ in his host’s mind was the reward.

So he finished his meal, and they spoke about his plans over his first cup of tea since before his imprisonment.

He felt at peace.

And thought that maybe, _maybe_ , everything would turn out alright after all.

* * *

It certainly started more promisingly than his short stop in New York. Well-rested and better prepared for the masses of people, the second part of his journey was something he was actually looking forward to.

When the Archbishop had heard the more detailed plans of the Mutant, he had indeed offered more of his help. Reassured by Richelieu claiming he’d be able to sneak his way through airport security without a passport, the Bishop had paid for a flight ticket to Paris, with travel funds usually reserved for calls to the College of Cardinals in Rome.

“I don’t need to travel First Class, anyway,” he had said and Richelieu had accepted, feeling the honesty in the Archbishop’s words reverberating in his own mind.

“I will need to set up a life again, on my own,” the Mutant had murmured, before they parted ways. “And I would prefer Europe to the States.”

Their eyes had met, with the Bishop’s gaze unafraid and smiling softly.

“I will inform my colleagues in the Old World. Your disappearance back then caused quite the scandal in the Church, they’ll be glad to help you wherever help is needed.”

Then the taxi had taken him away, to the airport, and he had grown wings.

Flying was an amazing experience, always had been, always would be. His eyes followed the lines of land, the mountainous clouds, the glittering sunlight on wings, water, windows.

His eyes didn’t hurt anymore, and he had never been as hungry for light as he was now that he had his sight back.

There was endless sky around him.

The plane was well-filled and the Cardinal let his mind wander aimlessly, shifting through the other passengers heads while enjoying the panorama offered to him through his little window.

He used the flight to collect information, about Paris, about current politics, about anything that seemed even remotely interesting to him. It felt freeing, like rain after a long drought, to be able to get in touch with the minds around him, on his own terms, with him firmly in control. It soothed the ever-present feeling of loneliness, of isolation, of not belonging anywhere he went.

With just a few hundred people around him, he could easily keep their thoughts and emotions out and his mind rooted in his own head, not losing itself in a wild, uncontrollable maelstrom like he had in New York.

He shuddered, cold creeping up his spine. Even the memory of the last day gave him goose bumps, but it had all been too much, that day. The onslaught after such a long time of a near total absence had simply overwhelmed him.

Richelieu sighed and tried to focus on the world outside, again. Another plane passed them by, gone in the blink of an eye, and too far, too fast to catch more than a glimpse of colours with his mind.

He should probably sleep, the Cardinal knew, he wouldn’t be able to rest much once he had reached Paris, before he had found Jean – _if_ he was where Richelieu thought he would be. And neither his nap in the car nor his unconsciousness in the cathedral had been more than just remotely refreshing.

But he didn’t know if falling asleep here would lead to broadcasting, and unlike in a city, where strange dreams or daydreams might be given little to no attention, a plane held a closed group of people. Someone would notice they all dreamed the same thing. Someone would find him, and he had neither the energy nor any interest in dealing with such a situation.

So he brushed up his French, through the eyes of a young student, enjoyed the pictures and descriptions of various sights through a couple on their honeymoon – while trying to ignore the feelings of _love belonging desire happiness_ that occupied their thoughts half of the time and checked the public transport plans on the screen of another of these modern phones – smartphones – from some business man in First Class.

Time passed. They were flying towards the sun, then away from it, sunset awaiting them in Paris, and exhaustion took its toll and Richelieu’s mind away.

He dreamed of blue eyes, and didn’t know if they were Jean’s or his.

* * *

Paris was very different to New York. Smaller. Older. More chaotic. Where there were glass and steel in the States, growing high into the sky, there were warm stone and colourful facades in small, winding roads here in the city of love.

But the beauty couldn’t touch Richelieu.

He meandered through the streets, coming closer and closer to his aim by the minute, but his steps strayed away from the direct path time and time again.

He didn’t know if he could do this. What if Jean wasn’t there? What if he _was_? What if he _had_ destroyed the Weapon’s mind in the melding process during his panic attack in the prison, and Jean wouldn’t even remember him?

Or didn’t want to see him?

What would be worse?

Richelieu straightened his spine, he would have to face these fears at _some_ point, at least if he wanted closure, if he wanted clarity.

He sighed, pushed his hands deeper into his pockets and kept walking. At least, he had finally managed to keep the people around him out of his head. Or his head out of those of the other people.

And suddenly, he stood in front of the Sorbonne Chapel, the place that had drawn him closer since Jean had left, the place where the other Richelieu had been buried.

The place where he would find Jean.

He closed his eyes, wanting to let his mind sweep through the building in front of him, wanting to check if he would find the incredible blue again that would show him he wasn’t wrong, Jean was really here.

But he couldn’t.

His throat was dry and trying to swallow didn’t help.

He opened his eyes again, huffing out his breath in another attempt to gather his courage, and stepped closer to the entrance.

“Vous ne pouvez pas aller la dedans, Monsieur,” a man greeted him. _You can’t go in there, Mister._ “C'est uniquement pour les groupes et il faut réserver avant.”

Richelieu turned towards the guy, their eyes locked and the Mutant’s words were loud and clear in the man’s mind.

_Open. The door._

The man started sweating, his hands trembling, but he was unable to look away.

 _Ouvrez la porte,_ Richelieu burned into the other mind, and he did one stumbling step, then a second one, and pulled out his keys, his eyes never leaving the Cardinal’s. Richelieu gave him a look of utter disdain, then send him away.

The door fell close with a final, heavy _thud_ , and goose bumps rose on Richelieu’s skin, not only because of the cold inside of the building. He started walking into the direction of the chapel, crossing the courtyard, the sound of his steps swallowed by limestone ground and gravel.

* * *

The church was eerily silent. A shiver ran down Richelieu’s spine. It was the first time he felt uncomfortable in an ecclesial building, _unwelcomed_.

Late afternoon sunlight flooded the Sorbonne, falling in through windows of stained glass, but the air wasn’t alive. Pressure build in the Mutant’s chest, but he kept going, freezing, emotionally and physically in this place he should feel so close to.

The room opened out before him, and, bathed in rays of sun and surrounded by dancing specks of dust, sparkling in the light, stood the sculpture of the tomb of Cardinal-Duc Armand de Richelieu. In front of it, his back towards the Telepath, kneeled a man with dark, sun-tanned skin, rich, nearly black hair, blue jeans and a brown, leather jacket. A hat was on the ground next to him, no helmet in sight.

The Cardinal closed his eyes, finally daring to reach out with his mind, and his whole inner eye drowned in _blue blue blue_.

Distracted, he nearly missed the first words Jean spoke to him since his departure.

“I have been waiting for you, Cardinal.”

He sounded tired, and Richelieu snapped outside of his mind and his eyes opened. The man got up from his kneeling position, turned around and the Telepath didn’t know how to react anymore.

He had imagined his warden so very differently. Refined, tall, western, a knight of old, but Jean wasn’t, he was short, bordering on tiny, he looked so very Spanish, with the dark hair and the dark skin, and so very _young_. Not a day above thirty, except for his eyes – and the prominent difference, this ancient gaze of someone who has seen too much, lived through too much, nearly brought Richelieu to his knees.

This wasn’t the Jean he had met in prison, who had opened up to him, laughed with him, shared his stories with him. This was a man out of time, who had been robbed of his last bit of hope of finally finding peace. Everything he might have wanted to say died on the way from his brain to his tongue, and instead a broken: “You knew I would come?” crossed his lips.

Jean smiled, then, and despite the terrible hollowness of his eyes, the smile made Richelieu’s heart sing. How often had he imagined it, in the darkness behind the blindfold, how often had he waited for it to turn up in Jean’s voice?

“They reported your escape in the news. It was just a question of time until you’d show up here. I knew you’d be smart enough to connect the dots to find me,” his voice turned wistful there, as did the smile. “Even though you’re not the person I expected you to be.”

“Because my eyes are blue, and not the colour of amber.”

“It’s more than just that, but yes. It was the point where I realised that I would finally have to accept you’re not – you’re not _him_.” Not _my Armand_ , Richelieu heard the unspoken words. He wished he hadn’t. There were so many emotions in Jean’s head, connected to that thought. Sometimes the Telepath wished he could simply deactivate his ability to read minds.

They looked at each other for a moment longer, before Jean turned back to the statue.

“You don’t even look very much like him, really. But – have you ever read a book, imagined the characters a certain way and then watched the movie and you couldn’t remember your thoughts on the characters, because they’ve all been rewritten by the movie’s interpretation? For me, it’s a lot like this with my memories of the First Minister. I can’t even remember how his voice sounds like, anymore.”

“But, in your memories –”

“I’ve heard so many voices throughout the years that reminded me of him, sounded like him, that his voice in my memories has changed, too. Most of his looks I remember through paintings and statues, most gestures and unique movement patterns through pop-culture interpretations. If I met him now, I am not sure I would recognise him anymore. Except for the eyes. The eyes have stayed the same through all these years.”

Jean sounded so very far away. Miles. Worlds. _Centuries_.

“You are in love with a dream,” Richelieu realised, quiet and sad.

“Yes, I am. I’m sorry I led you on. For a time, I really thought you might have been him.”

The Cardinal felt his throat tightening painfully and he asked, voice tiny and hopeless: “Why does this have to be the end? Why don’t you want to at least try –”

“Because you are going to die. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but soon enough, and I don’t want to be left behind. Not again.” There was no malice in Jean’s voice. That might have been what hurt the most. It was soft and quiet and sorry, trying to apologise without wanting to offend.

“Why would it have been different if I had really been him? I would have died, then, anyway!” He had never felt this mortal, the knowledge that he _would_ die someday so present it physically hurt him.

Jean whirled around and finally, there was life in his eyes, an angry fire, sending sparks, burning the Telepath: “Because it would have meant a second chance, for me, for _us_! It would have meant some happiness, some closure for both of us! It might not have been a Happy Ever After, but it would have meant _time_! A chance for me to show him how much I love him, not hidden behind closed doors, but out in the open.”

Jean grew quieter again with his last words, and, voice barely above a whisper, continued: “I am tired, Armand. So very tired, of living, of loving, of being alone. But I don’t want to love and lose again, not when I know I will have to continue afterwards. I don’t want to see the person I love grow old and die while I stay like this, trapped in a body that doesn’t age.”

The Weapon smiled again, then, softer this time, and it even touched his startling blue eyes. “Make me mortal, give me a chance to grow old by your side and die, and I will give you the chance you deserve. I haven’t found anything, not until now, but you have other sources available to you, maybe you’ll have more luck than I.”

Richelieu shook his head, first unconsciously, then in a deliberate motion.

“I don’t want your love to be conditional,” he croaked. “I don’t want to go through life thinking I need to _earn_ your love, to _buy_ your love. I want to deserve it for myself, not for what I did or didn’t do for you.”

Jean’s smile fell, but then he nodded, the hollowness flowing back into his gaze.

“You are right to scold me. Of course, you deserve love for yourself. But then, this will be farewell.” He picked up his hat, stepped away from the tombstone and towards the Telepath.

“You opened my eyes, Armand. I don’t regret getting to know you. I wish we could have met under different circumstances.”

Richelieu felt the cold creeping back in, but he kept the tremble out of his voice when he asked, a last attempt at stopping the Weapon from leaving, to understand the man in front of him whose mind he had shared without being able to make sense of it: “Why do you identify more with that moment in the trenches than with your position as Musketeer captain in Paris?”

Jean didn’t look at him when he answered. His eyes were glued to the face of the marble Richelieu, instead, his features unreadable, his mind verifying the words he said, supplying them with pictures until Richelieu shut the connection down again.

“I can’t remember the first man I killed. Not his face, not his name, nothing. Or the second, or the third. Or the first of my men I had to bury. I didn’t realise until I held that French boy who had reminded me so much of one of my recruits. I asked myself who I actually was, that moment. And I realised I wasn’t more than a weapon to the people around me. A curiosity to be used on the battlefield.

“Before, I had still been Jean de Treville. I haven’t called myself that since then. That man,” he spoke so quietly, as if to himself, or to the ghost of a man he wanted to speak to, “That man died in the trenches, together with his young French comrade. He has never come back from the war. You wouldn’t recognise him. _I_ don’t recognise him.”

He sighed, softly, but audibly, turned away from the statue and startled surprise flashed at the corners of his mind when he found the Telepath still standing next to him.

Jean gave him an uneasy smile, turned, and walked towards the exit, not looking back.

 _Farewell_ , the Cardinal thought, and didn’t stop him.

He stared at the marble face’s smile, instead, mocking him now, nearly four hundred years after his death. A lingering thought touched his mind, yet he was unable to fathom if it was directed at him or at the man the statue before him was meant to portray.

_I’m sorry, Armand._


End file.
